


Into the Fire

by Naja_Nivea



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-12 01:54:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 100,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naja_Nivea/pseuds/Naja_Nivea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an attempt on Tony’s life is tied to a series of escalating bombing throughout the Middle East, a mission is started that stretches the fragile bonds of trust and friendship that have been forged along with two men’s sanity.  Sequel to Oxycodone Days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

A/N 1: Because I had so much fun with Oxycodone Days, I decided to continue it. It isn't essential that you read it first, but some of the characterizations and motifs will make more sense if you do. This story was heavily influenced by the "Hurt Locker," because I really liked Jeremy Renner in it

A/N 2: One thing I love about writing Clint/Natasha is that they are both just so screwed up that there is no way in hell their relationship could be even remotely healthy, yet in my mind it works. I really want to play with how someone like Tony, that comes from another form of dysfunction (neglect vs. abuse) tries to relate to them. I don't know if it was RDJ's portrayal of Stark or what but he often reads as a bit of whiner to me and I want to see him start to understand that his problems aren't the be all and end all of the world. But at the same time I want to see how Romanov and Barton deal with learning how relationships don't have to be the co-dependent, all or nothing type they have.

Disclaimer: Not my characters and even if I made money at it, I wouldn't quit my day job.

Anyway on with the prologue.

**Into the Fire – Prologue:**

**Thursday April 21, 12:03 am**

"You win, Fury, we'll take it," Barton gruffly stated before abruptly ending the call, hoping he and his partner hadn't just made another in a series of truly stupid decisions.

**Wednesday April 20, 8:16 pm**

Agents Barton and Romanov quickly read through the files Hill had set in front of them. Tony, already drunk, was doing his best to try and read over their shoulders, no doubt annoyed that they had higher security clearance. Pepper clung to him like a life line, while the Captain and Bruce took turns pacing and using the last available seat at the table. Fury simply stared on at first confusing Barton with his presence, until he started to read through the mission details, which then made perfect sense. Clint couldn't really be bothered by any of it; he was far more concerned with the mission their new handler had given them. It immediately set his hackles up. Everything about it played opposite to his and Natasha's strengths, not to mention it was in the Middle East, a place he could die happy if he never saw again.

Not that he could fault the prep work, it was flawless along with their covers. He would be expected to deploy to an army unit that was to be placed in Syria. He would go in as a Captain, a slight demotion but he would be his alter ego, Pierce, not Barton anyway. His teams would be comprised of Rangers, EOD, and regular Army. Once there, he was to try and infiltrate to determine who was bootlegging Stark's weapon designs and rebuilding them on the cheap. Fury, along with DOD was convinced that someone in the Army had to be helping, because only DOD still had access to the weapons. Natasha would be his support, posing as a logistics Lieutenant and interfacing with SHIELD. Cap would stay behind to guard Stark. Though, Stark would initially go with them, in hopes of drawing the ring leader out.

No, there was nothing he could inherently fault about it. Conceptually it was perfect, but once his head got past the concept, his heart ran cold at the prospect of going back into that situation again. It would be like Faluja, Iraq, Afghanistan, and all the unspoken about raids into Iran again. No support, no cover, no hope. Watching women scream, children cry, and good men make bad decision in the name of their country and their god. The smell of the spices and the ozone after an explosion, ears still ringing as he stood exposed in the middle of a kill box, scanning buildings for snipers. Most of the time they were kids, stupid fucking kids that thought they were doing good but weren't. He never paid much attention to the fact that he had basically been just a kid too. Seventeen, he had been seventeen; though the army had thought he was 18, when he had shot his first person in the head. All of it came back in one ugly rush that almost had him bolting for the bathroom.

Natasha seemed to understand though and he felt her knee press against his. She snapped her screen closed and looked Fury dead in the eye. "We're not taking it. Give it to someone else."

"What?" Hill squeaked, she still wasn't used to dealing with them. "You aren't allowed to say no."

"We can and we just did," Natasha glared at the other woman, her eyes never wavering. Hill was tough but Tash was tougher.

"Barton," Hill snapped.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I'm inclined to agree with my partner, this isn't a good fit for us. Find someone else."

"You do realize that is actually a perfect fit for you two," Fury started, "Stark's life is in danger not to mention the secrets they are stealing are costing him millions of dollars. I figured you two would be willing to swap places to protect him."

"I understand that, sir, but Gunnarson and Morse can pull this off just as easily and we can stay and guard Stark personally."

"Gunnarson is shit at investigating and has no poker face. No one will ever trust him enough for him to track down who is leaking the plans," Maria added, ever practical.

"Well, then you better think of another team because Barton and I aren't doing," Natasha folded her arms against her chest and he leaned over slightly towards her the same time she leaned towards him, their shoulders nearly touching.

"What is wrong with you people?" Tony nearly shouted. "I got shot at and almost blown to kingdom come, in this very tower, and am losing $4 million a week because of this and you two can't bother to get off your asses and do something about it?"

"Apparently not," she shot back at him. In these situations, it was best to just let her handle it. She was, sadly, the more politic of the two.

"Barton, Natasha, I don't understand, why won't you help Tony?" Steve tried, and instantly made Clint feel guilty. His inherent dislike of disappointing his CO already making him second guess himself. Tony, Bruce, even Thor when he was around, could be ignored but Steve was respected and he would do whatever it took to keep off of his radar in a negative way. The Psych Team's confidential report to Coulson had said it was probably from growing up with an abusive father. He had been too conditioned for too long to hide from authority figures. He didn't know if he agreed with it but he did know he didn't like getting yelled at. In fact Coulson had blown a gasket when he found out Barton had read those reports, yelling about locks and boundaries; locks smocks. That was like saying hand cuffs actually confined people.

"It's not that we don't want to help him. We'll make sure Stark is safe, it's just," he started, trying to find a way to answer that didn't make him sound like a selfish asshole. They were turning down the mission because he was afraid to go back into that type of situation, afraid of turning back into the person he had been before SHIELD. A person that was so burnt out and so dead inside that he didn't care if his body caught up with the dead feeling or not. All he did was kill and survive. He didn't feel, joy, pity, remorse, fear, love, or anything other than a numb desire to follow orders.

All soldiers, snipers in particular, had to have some degree of depersonalization to do their jobs; otherwise they wouldn't be able to look someone in the eyes and kill them. But apparently Clint's level of emotional numbing and detachment went beyond a healthy, short term coping mechanism to making him functionally mentally ill. At least it had until Coulson had tamed the Hawk to his hand by coaxed, prodded, and occasionally kicked him in the ass to break out of that mindset. That has been the scariest part of Loki's control, not that Loki had taken away his free will, but that Loki had turned him back into what he used to be; an emotionless killer. He knew Tony and Bruce even, made fun of him for being cold blooded but they didn't know the half of it.

"It's just what?" Tony snapped, clearly agitated. He kept spinning his bracelets, no doubt itching to put on his Iron Man suite. But Iron Man couldn't fix this. This required subtlety, which was his and Natasha's bread and butter.

He saw tears in Pepper's eyes; they had been so close to the surface, ever since yesterday and the attempt on Tony's life. He fought his knee jerk reaction to give in to anything she wanted, just to get her to stop. "Tasha, maybe," he started. He was being selfish; he should suck it up and do the damn job. He was a soldier, he followed orders and this was an order so he should follow it.

"No!" she snapped clearly angry. "It's not worth it." She looked him in the eyes and he dropped his first, embarrassed at how glad he was that she was standing up for him. He'd never been all that good at standing up for himself. When it came to non battle confrontations, especially ones that dealt with emotions, his fight or flight response was stuck in flight mode. And not just normal flight, more like running away and hiding as far away as humanly possible until the problem went away. Nat was the only person left that would fight for him.

"How can you say that," Pepper gasped, tears finally working down her cheeks. "How could you think Tony isn't worth it?" Tony had his arm around her in a heartbeat, holding her close. He had been much more affectionate the last day or so. He guessed that nearly getting blown up tended to shift a man's priorities. Or so he thought, it had been so long since he hadn't had to worry about being blown up that he forgot what it was like.

"I didn't say that," Natasha turned to the other woman, disgust evident on her face. Tasha had little patience for helpless woman and though Pepper was far from helpless, she wasn't anywhere near on par with the Black Widow. But then again, who was. She was the only woman Clint had ever met that could wake screaming and shaking from a nightmare and cling to him, sobbing into his chest, yet never come across as even remotely weak. She could let herself selectively fall apart in private but always be strong in public. He really admired that about her.

"But you said," Pepper started before Romanov cut her off.

"I never said we wouldn't protect him. I said this hackneyed mission wasn't worth it," she turned back to Clint. "We save Stark a few million dollars and you spend 2 months not sleeping?" he kept eye contact with her, letting her know he agreed. "That is what's not worth it." She rose, ghosting her fingers over his shoulder, letting him know that she would fight for him even if he weren't willing to fight for himself. "This discussion is over," she stated and walked off as he followed her.

**Wednesday April 20, 11:31 pm**

Natasha shimmied her way up to Clint's highest perch, settling herself down beside him, legs hanging over the edge. Over the years of working with and being his partner, she had learned to accept suicidaly high hiding places, though she didn't adore them the way he did. She traced his line of sight, as he watched some 30 feet below, where Pepper wept into Tony's shoulder; her slight body shaking in fear for Tony's life. This type of threat wasn't something Stark could charm, pay, or think his way out of. This was their world and the only way out was to still be the one standing at the end. The Avengers, with their shiny uniforms and high profile lives didn't understand their world; a world of darkness, lies, and death. You were only the best until someone was better and then you were just dead. Tony dreamed of clean energy and world peace. Steve dreamed of integration and a return of righteous America, while Bruce wanted nothing more than absolution. All she and Clint wanted was to get to die together.

Because they were alone, she indulged herself and put her chilled hand on his thigh, the muscles hard and tense under her. They were silent and she thought through her talk track with him. There were so many things about this that she didn't like. Clint being the one in deep cover, for example. Oh she knew he was more than capable of it, in fact he was one of the best but she knew he didn't like it. The problem was that he hated being the center of attention. While she was a discerning about who she kept company with, he was the definition of a lone wolf. Once you got past his glacial "keep out" walls, and managed to ignore his defense mechanism of grumpy monosyllabic responses interspersed with vitriolic cynicism that could even shut Tony up, you realized that deep down he really was very shy. Of course there had only been three people in all of recorded history that had actually managed that task, herself, Phil Coulson, and Barney Barton, his brother; who she frequently imagined the joy of herniating his brain stem if she ever met him. All that being said, she knew he was capable of the assignment but that it would tear him up to do it.

That lack of joy extended beyond having to be the point to what he was actually being asked to do. No one other than her would realize how hard this would be for him. She only knew because they were so close, flip sides of the same coin really. She had spent too many years staring at Complex PTSD in the mirror every morning to not recognize it with him. She hadn't known it had had name until she had broken into Phil's office and read their confidential Pysch reports, like locks would keep her out. Oh their triggers and reactions were different. She couldn't handle confinement or loss of control. Fires or anything that reminded her of Red Room set her off. She would lash out and rave, attacking anyone that came within 500 meters of her. She turned it all outward, a need to protect herself in the most primal way took over and she became an animal. His were more subtle, like the smell of cotton candy or the sound of leather snapping together. However there was one very obvious one, and that was being sent back into pure, Army combat. He, on the other hand, defensively turned himself inward when stressed. He withdrew and isolated himself till it was like dealing with a cipher. He actually wigged out much more frequently than she did but it was harder to spot. It scared the shit out of her when he did that too, because there was nothing more disconcerting that standing next to someone and having a conversation with them, but knowing that they weren't really there with you. That was why Loki's control had been so frightening, because she had seen him like that before but with Loki, she didn't know if she could coax him out of it.

"Pepper cornered me," she started, because she knew he wouldn't say anything. It was a common misconception that she didn't get along with other women and didn't get along with Pepper in particular. It wasn't true, she didn't mind her. She just didn't like when that skinny, duck faced bitch touch Clint. She had only done it once, hugged Barton and kissed him on the cheek like she did to Rogers and Banner when they returned from a mission, a simple gesture of friendship but Natasha did not find it acceptable. NO ONE but her got to touch him. She realized that her jealousy was childish and selfish but in that one thing she indulged herself and he didn't seem to mind.

She waited but he didn't respond, most people assumed that she wore the pants in their relationship because she was the most vocal but it wasn't true. They both had equal input and there were situations where he would completely take over and she would follow without question. But times like this, where they had to talk, she always took the lead. "She's worried about Tony," she continued. "She begged me to talk you into taking the job."

"I figured," he answered, covering her hand with his own. That one gesture more caring and intimate than all of the groping and weeping going on below them.

"I told her no," she added, watching Tony kiss his girlfriend.

"I'm being selfish about this, aren't I?" he asked, his voice flat. He was already withdrawing, thickening his walls and clearing out mental compartments to separate his thoughts and emotions from what he was going to do.

"We've done enough and earned the right to be selfish," she snapped, hating that they were even discussing this.

"Then why did you bring up Pepper?" he knew her too well, could spot her attempts to manipulate him too easily.

"It's hard to ignore that it's Tony, a friend that is in danger."

"Your friend. I don't really like him," he grinned and bumped her shoulder. He was trying to lighten the mood, trying to remove her guilt at allowing him to do this. She could pick out his manipulations just as easily.

"True, but a teammate none the less, even though he probably wouldn't do the same for us." And it was them, not just him that would suffer. She would hurt for him and cry for him because she knew he wouldn't do it for himself. Somewhere along the way, he seemed to have forgotten how to cry.

They were silent for a while, just watching the world below them. They were both just processing how to handle this. Running different scenarios on what could and should happen. None of it made her happy. "I have a bad feeling about this," he spoke in low voice, almost a bedroom voice that no one but her ever heard. It was devoid of edge or sarcasm, this was honesty.

"I do too," she responded in kind.

"Great, last time we both had a bad feeling about a job, we ended up almost bleeding to death on a roof in Berlin," he looked up at the stars, dulled by the pollution and lights of New York. She often thought of how much happier he would be in the country. Hawks weren't made for urban sprawl. "And no Coulson to save us, this time," he almost whispered. Only with her would he admit how much he still missed Phil "Squawks" Coulson.

"No Coulson to rescue us but we have a new team now," she tried but knew it wasn't the same, not for him and not for her.

"You trust them that much?" it was a casual question to anyone listening but to them it had layers of meaning.

"No yet," she answered truthfully, because Coulson and Barton were the only two people she ever trusted that much and she missed their old handler too. But strangely she had made more progress with the new team than he had. His natural introversion always made it difficult for him to bond with people plus he was deployed away from them much more frequently than her so he had less time to connection. Not to mention in battle, she tended to be near the Captain, while he was separated from them; high up in a bird's nest somewhere. She wasn't surprised that he was still standoffish to them. She just hoped Tony made good on his promise and continued to try and befriend him. "But we never will if we don't give them a chance to prove themselves off the battle field," she finished as he ran his callused thumb over the backs of her knuckles. It was a familiar, comforting gesture he had been doing for years.

"I guess we should call Fury then," he sighed and she swallowed the urge to tell him to forget it. She was afraid this was a horrible decision. Because if something happened to Clint there would be no Natasha and she liked Natasha. There would still be Agent Romanov and Black Widow but Natasha only existed because Clint had decided to give her a chance. Because she was him and he was her and without that other half of herself, she knew that she wouldn't exist not in the same way and that scared the hell out of her. But she trusted him to make it through this mission and if he didn't he trusted her to bring him back.

"I guess so," she breathed and he reached for his phone.

**Thursday April 21, 12:03 am**

"You win, Fury, we'll take it," Barton gruffly stated before abruptly ending the call, hoping he and his partner hadn't just made another in a series of truly stupid decisions.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

**Into the Fire, Chapter 1: Strike a Match**

**Tuesday, April 19, 9:39 am**

Stupid Fury, Natasha thought as she tugged her robe so it wasn't stuck to her sweaty thighs and stomped down the hall towards Tony's lab. Stupid fucking Tony too, she groused, hoping he wouldn't notice how erect her nipples were under the thin fabric. Who was she kidding, of course he would notice. Why couldn't Fury just summon Stark on his own without having to send her as an errand girl? Clint had just gotten back a few hours ago from a mission in Cambodia. They had spared and she convinced him to join her in the sauna afterwards, even though he had, "had enough of steamy, fucking jungle heat for awhile."

She ground her teeth and wished she had grabbed her slippers before trudging down here. Tony's uber energy efficient, new fangled cooling system assured that they were always comfortable but also that the floors were like walking on a slab of ice.

She really would have preferred a warm body under her right now. Natasha knew people always wondered if her and Barton were sleeping together and then once they figured out the answer was 'yes,' why she was with him and not someone better. She was mature enough to admit Steve was better looking, Banner was nicer, and Tony was more charming. None of it matter to her, Clint was Clint and worth more than any of them as far as she was concerned. Besides, he could do some freaky, circus shit in bed she hadn't even know was possible. And she had just opened the big top so she could climb his center pole, so to speak when Fury interrupted them. Great, now her nipples were standing out even further!

"STARK!" she yanked the door open to the lab, surprising Tony and Bruce.

"I didn't do it," Tony shouted without even looking up but she could hear the smirk on his face. She was going to knock that grin off of there in about 2 seconds. Clint had been gone for 3 weeks, 3 weeks with nothing but the other Avengers and her SHIELD cohorts for company. Three weeks of no partner and no sex. If Barton was asleep when she got back, Tony was going to die!

"I don't care what else you haven't done, but you haven't answered Fury, and he is most insistent that you do, so CALL HIM BACK," She growled.

"Why Natasha, you sound angry," he looked up at her and that smirk turned into his insufferable smile. "I do believe Jarvis mentioning that Agent Barton returned this morning, Fury didn't interrupt anything did he?" he taunted and she rolled her eyes.

"Actually he did. We were about to start practicing scenes out of the Kama Sutra, when Fury called and made me come find you. So if you could please ring him up, so I can get back to page 102," She opted for honesty, knowing it would take him a minute to process it and respond. She ignored Bruce's blazingly, red blush and tossed a phone at Tony. He purposely missed and back pedaled from her and the phone. She bent down to grab it and heard a beep as a red light under the floor caught her eye. "Don't move Tony!" She shouted and dropped into a crouch.

"Agent Romanov," Bruce started, "your robe."

She ignored him and the fact that her robe only came to her mid thigh and she was crouched with her legs open and nothing on under it. That was the least of her concerns. "Shit," she started and looked back at them. "There's a bomb under the floor."

**Tuesday, April 19, 9:41 am Stark Tower NYC, NY**

"What?" Tony squeaked and looked back at Romanov, only slightly distracted that other than Barton and her Gynecologist everyone else that had had this view was probably dead. She was a natural red head and went for a landing strip, somehow he pictured her as more of a Brazilian girl, but that wasn't important right now.

"Don't anyone move," she ducked her head a little lower and sighed. "There is a trigger of kind under the tile you are standing on. It might go off if you move," she told him calmly as she scanned the rest of the room and floor. The labs were designed with partially see through holographic floor panels so everyone could see his state of the art heating and cooling system that ran between the floors. It was 70% more energy efficient than standard AC units and he was very proud of it.

"What should we do?" Banner called to them. He hadn't moved from his stool by his computer. He looked stressed though, which was never a good sign.

"Try not to freak out, would be a start," Tony answered, "either of us," he finished as Natasha continued to see what she could see without moving.

"I can't see the trigger or the switch," she finally admitted.

"Jarvis, can you figure out what type of bomb or trigger it might be and disarm it?" Tony tried. His AI should know everything that went on in every inch of the tower.

"I'm afraid not, sir, someone has damaged my relays to the R&D lab floors." The computerized British accent answered.

"Well, shit," Tony sighed. "Ok, get the Mark 7 suit in here for me then," he decided.

"NO!" Romanov screamed. "We don't know if it is timed, pressure sensitive, or what. Any movement could set it off." Tony suddenly felt panicked in a way he had not been before.

"Then what do we do? We can't just stand here all day?" He ranted, noticing Bruce breathing deeply.

"Jarvis, find Rogers and have him evacuate the building. Don't let him into anyplace you can't sweep." She took charge, looking unruffled and in command even while only wearing a black, silk robe.

"Very good, ma'am," the AI responded

"Then what do we do?" Tony protested but she held up her hand to shoosh him.

"Clint," she barked into the phone in her hand.

"Hey, Natashen'ka, where are you?" he mumbled back, sounding like he had been asleep. Romanov looked murderous for some reason.

"We have a situation," she told him calmly, gracefully standing back up.

"What is it?" Tony could no longer hear any trace of grogginess in his voice. It wasn't Clint and Tasha talking anymore, it was Hawkeye and Black Widow. He still didn't understand how they just turned on and off like that.

"I'm in Tony's lab with him and Bruce. There was a quiet beep and a red light now shining under the tile Tony is standing on. I can see a few wires that appear out of place and Jarvis's sensors were disconnected.

"Is Rogers clearing everyone else out?" Barton questioned, Tony could hear rustling in the background, like the man was getting dressed. Holy shit, Fury really had interrupted them when they were having sex. Talk about awkward.

"Da," she answered simply.

"Ok, I'll be there in a sec," he hung up and Natasha tucked the phone into her pocket, making her robe droop on one side.

"Now what?" Tony asked, he was not the type of person that enjoyed sitting around waiting to be saved.

"Now we wait," she slid her feed out slightly and balanced her weight comfortably, crossing her arms.

He looked around his lab for anything he could use to improvise but there was nothing. This was purely a computer lab and made for winding down and deep thinking, not building anything in. The entire ceiling was a series of glass tiles that created a dome affect, the floor were semi transparent tiles that were smooth as glass, and the tables were on casters and of solid construction so they were of no use.

He made it about 3 minutes before he exploded, "What are we waiting for?"

"That," she pointed towards the ceiling, where Barton was kneeling, cutting a hole through one of the glass panes.

Once the marksman had the hole cut and removed the glass, he stuck his torso threw and fired a series of arrows with ropes attached to them. It appeared haphazard at first, but then Tony realized he was creating a web of ropes he could dangle from without touching the floor. He spent some time swinging through them like a freakin' trapeze artist, attaching carbines and belaying ropes at intervals. After he was satisfied, he hooked his harness in and started to descend towards them. As he dropped, Tony started humming the Mission Impossible theme song, because he really couldn't help himself. Natasha gave him a dirty look.

"Here," he handed over a com device and his bow his partner and hung his quiver from a rope right beside her, when he reached her shoulder level. He tossed com links to Tony and Bruce as well, as Romanov secured the quiver over her back. Tony's quick eyes caught him guiding her hand to a specific arrow, the one with the tranquilizers to stop the Hulk. It was a sound tactical decision but he was still insulted on Banner's behalf. Bruce just seemed relieved. "Com check," he asked, pulling Tony out of his musings.

"Copy," Natasha answered and stared at him and Banner till they also answered.

"Well, let's see what we are dealing with here," Barton began to swing around the room, stopping to remove light switches, electrical outlets, surge protectors, and Ethernet cables. Each one he examined and reattached. He then returned to the tile between Natasha and Tony, dropping to about a foot above the floor and started to pull up one of the tiles. He was meticulous in working it up slightly, then feeling underneath it for wires. It took over six minutes, and yes, Tony was counting, for the man to free the tile from wires running under it and remove it from the floor. There was a blast of cold air from the cooling system under the floor, as he removed the tile and secured it from one of the ropes. The lab was directly over the server room, so it had the most space between floors for additional cooling coils.

Barton lowered himself further and ducked his head under the tiles, shining a light around, one of the many things he had stuffed into the 18 pockets in his pants. Why did one person need so many pockets? It seemed like he was down there forever and Tony was about to yell, when he popped back up and said, "I've got good news and bad news."

"Good news first, Agent Barton," Fury chimed over their ear pieces. Tony almost jumped in surprise.

"Good news there's no timer."

"And the bad news?" Tony asked, wondering how much worse this could get.

"The pressure sensors in the floor have been rewired to act as a giant dead man's switch and there's enough military issue C-4 down there to level the entire building. Oh and Stark is standing right in the middle of it." Barton relayed, then starting messing around with the knots on his harness. "The placement is weird though, they aren't trying to bring the building down, the blast pattern would be up and out but there would be little structural damage to the majority of the tower."

"The servers," Tony said, smacking himself in the head. "The server room where all the R&D on our unfinished weapons is stored is directly below this room." He sighed, "someone is trying to steal my weapons designs."

Barton looked at him as he through the whole, and untied his ropes from his harness. "Look at it this way, Stark, maybe it isn't that convoluted, maybe someone is trying to kill you," he smiled and dropped out of sight.

He could trace Barton's movements by his light and the sound of scuffing under the floor. He watched him belly crawl the entire room, occasionally stopping and tinkering with a few things before Bruce spoke ups, "Agent Barton, how sensitive are the pressure sensors?"

Tony could see the man take his flash light out of his mouth to respond, "no way of knowing for sure, but since they are wired through Jarvis's sensors, probably about the same, within a few ounces of pressure change, from above or below," he answered.

"So you are playing a giant game of operation under there? You hit one of the sensors or anyone moves and kaboom?" Tony asked, feeling sick to his stomach. He was going to die, he was going to get blown up in his lab and he never got the chance to actually make Pepper an edible omelet. Maybe he could talk Hawkeye into teaching him how to make one, if he lived.

"Something like that?" he was silent again as he made it to the wall by the door and Tony finally had to ask.

"How long is this going to take?" he was antsy and beyond unhappy at his lack of control.

"It's going to take a while," Barton answered annoyingly calm. What exactly did it take to ruffle that guys feathers?

"How long is awhile?" Natasha asked, watching Bruce warily.

"You remember how long it took me to set those charges in Managua?" he mumbled at her, clearly not bothering to remove the flashlight from his mouth.

"Yes," she answered. He was glad at least she could understand him.

"Longer than that," he returned and she slumped her shoulders and hung her head.

"Tony, don't lock your knees and make sure balance your weight evenly," she counseled and he knew he was in for it.

Tony started getting fidgety after an hour. The fact that he couldn't move made him want to move more than anything and he had to constantly fight with himself not to start kicking his legs around. He needed a distraction. "Doesn't he ever talk?" he almost shouted, startling Bruce.

"If he isn't talking then we're fine, start worrying when he gets chatty," she answered and went back to tracing his progress under the floor. He was nearly directly under her when he stopped and Tony could see he was shining the light upward.

"Hey, Tasha," Barton finally said, "I can't see your panties," he sounded dead serious and Natasha started cracking up. Tony was lost and petrified. The Black Widow laughing couldn't end well for anyone.

"Really, Barton, we could all be blown up and that is what you are concentrating on?" There was still a hint of mirth in her voice.

"I could die a happy man if that was the last thing I saw," he answered but moved past her.

"And I could die happy if these tiles weren't between me and your face but we don't always get want we want," she teased back and Bruce blushed again.

"What's going on in there guys? Why is Natasha threatening Barton's face," Steve asked, clearly worried and uncomfortable being out of the loop. Also clearly misunderstanding the meaning of Romanov's comment.

"Nothing, Rogers, Barton is still working on the bomb," Romanov started but Tony cut her off.

"Natasha isn't wearing underwear and Barton was looking up her robe." She glared at him but he ignored it. Causing problems was taking his mind off the fact he was standing on a giant cash of C-4 and had to trust an ex circus performer to save him.

"That's just disrespectful," Steve sounded upset. Then added with a confused tone, "why would he look anyway, I thought he was, you know, gay?" he finished in a whisper, which got a snort from Barton and a giggle from Romanov.

"Don't worry about it," Tony told him as he went back to watching Hawkeye belly crawl under him.

Another hour in and Barton hadn't said a word, Natasha looked bored, Bruce looked sleepy, and Tony was freaking the fuck out. He was about to pull his hair out, when he heard the sweetest voice he knew, "Tony, are you still doing alright?" Pepper asked over the com link and he felt his lips turn upward.

"Yeah, yeah, we're all still ok. I think Barton might be taking a nap under the floor but other than that we're good." He soothed her. Keeping her calm was making him work at remaining calm. "Are you safely away from the tower, just in case?"

"Yes, Happy and I are with Director Fury, were a few blocks away. Steve is here too," she sounded close to tears.

"That's good," he said, decided what the last thing he might say to her should be. He needed to let her know how much she meant to him. How she was the only person other than Rhodey that had stuck with him through thick and thin. She helped him find a reason to live when he thought it would have been easier to give up. She was a constant that he couldn't live without. He wanted her beside him for the rest of his life. His empire needed an empress and he wanted it to be her.

"Do you think Agent Barton will have you out of there in time to prepare you speech for the Energy Commission in Chicago?" she asked, being a complete romantic buzzkill.

"We can always push the flight time back, if we need to. The plane won't leave without me, it is my plane after all."

They continued chatting about his speech, him proposing jokes and her shooting them down, making him concentrate on the topic. She was so dull sometimes. Finally Barton emerged from the floor, dragging a complicated bundle of wires and about 40 blocks of C-4. Tony tried not to focus on the fact that they all seemed to be attached to the tile he was standing on. So instead he concentrated on the Agent in front of him, who was shivering from being in the middle of the cooling system for nearly 4 hours, and was covered in scrapes and bruises from belly crawling around without elbow or knee guards. He had had to discard them early on so he could fit under the floor. His fingers were raw and bleeding from having to cut and strip wires in such a confined space.

He watched Barton take the rope Natasha handed him and hook his harness into it and pull himself above the floor to sit lotus style about 6 inches above the ground. He sat there scratching his head and blowing on his fingers for about 2 seconds longer than Tony could stand. "Well, are you done?" he snapped.

"Not yet. This is the last trigger, but it's the most complicated," he looked up and smiled. "I so want to meet whoever did this, because they are awesome. They wired some of them backwards and kept changing wire color every so often. Completely random, that's why it took so long. But this," he held up the jumble of wires connected to Tony's tile, "is a thing of beauty. Triple wired switches that all have to be cut the same time or bye-bye. I'm totally stealing this design."

"I fail to share your enthusiasm, in the finer points of blowing people up," Stark droned at him, wishing this whole ordeal was over. He wanted food, sex, sleep, and a bathroom because he REALLY had to pee.

Clint started to weave his fingers through the wires forming a intricate cat's cradle of colored wires, then stopped and looked up at Tony, "I can't remember is it the red wire or the blue wire, red one, blue one, red one, blue one?" he questioned and Tony tried not to freak out that he was actully holding a green wire. "Maybe it's the green one" he grabbed a red wire and Tony started to sweat. "Oh well, won't know till I cut them," Barton looked him dead in the eye and said, "BOOM!" when he cut the final wires. Tony nearly fainted, crapped himself, and may have pissed himself a little. "Actually it was the yellow one," he chuckled as he released his harness and dropped on his butt to the floor. "All clear, sir, send in the bomb dogs."

"You are and unrepentant dick!" Tony groused at him, for his joke. That had not been funny. All the agent did was shrug at him and start stacking up the blocks of plastic explosive. He took the opportunity to leave for the bathroom, but Fury's voice stopped him.

"By the way, Stark, I wanted to let you know we had a credible lead that someone might make an attempt on your life. That's why I was trying to get a hold of you." He could hear the repressed humor in the other man's voice and he was going to hit something as soon as he took a leak.

They reconvened, 3 blocks away and 30 minutes later, after Natasha had slipped into a cat suit, Clint had instructed the bomb dogs where to look, and Tony had changed his pants because maybe he had peed a little but it was only to be expected. He had drunk 2 big cups of coffee and been standing there for nearly 4 hours with all that cold air blowing up at him. They were inside a SHIELD mobile command center and it was a bit of a tight fit. Rogers and Barton had to remain standing, which was just fine with him because having Happy switch out all the band aids with Hello-Kitty and Sponge Bob bandages so Barton's fingers and forearms looked like a young, Asian girl threw up on him; was not even close to recompense for his trick.

He amused himself waiting for Fury by running his hands up and down Pepper's leg and internally laughing that Barton and Rogers were unconsciously standing exactly the same way, leg shoulder width apart, hands behind their back at belt level, and elbows out. Rhodey had told him it was called parade ground rest. It didn't look restful or comfortable at all.

Fury arrived fairly quickly followed by Maria Hill. Natasha shifted in her seat slightly to put herself between the new woman and Clint. Her possessiveness was scary. Tony wondered if Barton knew she was the "if I can't have you no one can," type. But then again, who the hell else would want him? After waiting so long for Fury, it was kind of a letdown when all he said was, "Agent Hill."

"Last night we vetted a credible threat to Tony Stark's life," she brought up a picture of a badly damaged building, "according to Agent Barton, the placement of the explosives agrees with our theory that they were ultimately after the servers and the weapons R&D stored on them. We believe whoever it is that set the charges is also the same group that is responsible for the bombings you see here," she pointed to the screen. "Each one was caused by a weapon almost identical to a Stark weapon but with slight differences. We believe someone is bootlegging your designs, Mr. Stark, and rebuilding them."

"Do you know who is doing it?" Steve asked.

"No, not yet," she admitted. "We do think now that this failed, they will either make another attempt at the servers or an attempt to capture Mr. Stark."

"Then we need to get Tony into hiding," Pepper squeezed his hand. Now that he was safe, she seemed panicked. Women were weird.

"No, then we can't use him to draw them out. If they are committed enough to blow up Stark Tower, then they will make another attempt at him no matter how long he hides," Natasha pointed out.

"My thoughts exactly, Agent Romanov, you get the investigation," Fury finally added to the conversation. Tony wasn't sure how he felt about this.

"Well he should at least cancel his speech at the Energy Summit," Pepper tried.

"Actually I think he shouldn't," Fury countered.

"Barton," Fury, turned his eye to Hawkeye.

"Sir?" Barton questioned.

"Rogers will be his bodyguard but you have the security detail. You two make sure he gets in and out alive. "

"Sir, yes, sir," Barton answered and Tony lamented that he would have to trust his life to Captain tight ass and Agent dickwad or if he wanted to go for rank, Major dickwad, which was kind of funny. Maybe he should just wear the suit.

Six hours later saw him, Pepper, Rogers and Barton on his private plane to Chicago. He cuddled Pepper as they went over his speech and Rogers watched the clouds go by, occasionally commenting on the speech, but mostly just staring. They should have been in the air 2 hours ago but Hawkeye insisted on going over every square inch of the plane with a fine tooth comb, insisted the pilots keep the cockpit door open, and that they give him their communications frequency so he could hear what they were saying.

Tony had thought it was overkill but Barton would not be moved. He had actually complained to Fury but Natasha stopped him by saying, "relax, Tony, who better to protect you from an assassin then one of the world's best assassins?" He then realized all of the bases Barton was covering were probably ways he had used to get to people, which frankly made him not too fond of Barton.

Speaking of the Hawk, Tony looked over at him, and watched as he mechanically ate the swordfish steak Tony had catered, as he stared at his lap top. He had ignored it until it was probably cold and he hadn't bothered to put the mango, vinegar sauce on it. He just pulled it apart with his fork without looking and ate it like it was nothing. That was one weird thing he had noticed about the sniper, while he would cook gourmet meals for his partner, when she wasn't around he never made or ate anything more involved than a tuna sandwich. So either he didn't really like cooking that much or he had blue collar tastes.

There were other odd things he had started to notice, after Natasha convinced him to try and befriend the man. For example, Clint, when he wasn't on a mission or training or anything like that, just walking around the house; limped on his right leg. It was pronounced, not all the time, most of the time it was subtle like resting the majority of the weight on his left leg or if he was walking up stairs he started with is left leg. At first he thought it was because the man was a lefty, a fact it took him nearly 6 months to notice, but as he paid more attention he clearly picked up on a limp. He had mentioned it to Bruce, who had access to their medical histories and informed him that the bullet he took in his thigh in Afghanistan had ruptured his quadriceps tendon and torn his PCL and LCL. Not to mention the strain of being a lifelong gymnast. Dr. Banner suspected that the agent probably had mild to moderate arthritis in the joint but ignored it when he was on missions, which was most of the time.

Which brought him to his next point, which was how much it weirded him out that Clint and Agent Barton seemed to be different people. Tony was Iron Man and Iron Man was Tony. There was no difference in the way he acted in the suit or out of it. Steve was the same way. Natasha and Clint on the other hand acted like different people when they were in Agent Mode. There was no small talk, very little joking, no touching, and relaxing. Like now, for example, Barton hadn't said a thing since they took off even after he had thrown a balled up napkin at him, which he had caught without looking up and it was driving Tony nuts. Maybe he was tired because he had flown back from Cambodia and almost immediately been thrown into another mission, or maybe he was just cranky because he still had a case of blue balls from that morning. Tony would suck it up though, only because he was so damn tired.

**Tuesday, April 19, 11,07 pm Chicago, IL**

They touched down in Chicago and Clint whisked them off to the hotel he had changed their reservations to. Tony complained he wanted to stay at the W but Clint really didn't care. The complaining got worse when he forced them to take the stairs to the penthouse suite but again, he was unmoved. Didn't Stark realize that elevators were great places to kill people? Stair wells were much harder because people could run. Once at the room, he went in first and tossed the place. He then duct taped the drapes shut and hung additional blankets over them. He moved the bed so it was under the window and sideways so Tony would be cradled under the window sill, which had steel casings in this hotel (yes, he had checked). He also dismantled all the lights in the bedroom other than the bathroom but left instructions to turn it off as soon as possible, let Steve answer the door, don't eat anything from room service, and do not leave the room for any reason.

He then took off to where Tony would be speaking the next day. He was not happy. The podium was in the middle of a freakin' park, there were about a billion places for even a mediocre sniper to hide and too many to count for a good one. But it was his job to keep Stark safe so he started at one end and went to the other. He checked trees, set cameras on roof tops, counted open windows and cross referenced them with the tenants for those window. He reinforced the podium with Kevlar and set up cameras so SHIELD could monitor the crowd for known suspicious persons. His final task was to figure out where to set his own snipers when they got there the next day.

By the time it was done, it was nearly 5 in the morning and if he was lucky he could get back to the hotel and catch 2 hours of sleep before he had to come back and get the police and FBI co ordinate. He jogged back, annoyed that he hadn't even gotten a shower since he came back from Cambodia, nor had he gotten any sex, which really pissed him off. Fuck Fury for interrupting him and Natasha that morning and fuck Tony too for not answering his damn phone. He should let the man get shot in the leg just to prove a point.

He arrived at the hotel and knocked on the door for Rogers to let him in. The man turned on the light by the door and checked the peep hole to be met by Barton's pistol. "Don't turn the light on before you check who is on the other side. Your head blocking the light just told me exactly where to shoot," he scolded the pajama clad man, but pushed past him to collapse on the couch. He didn't bother changing clothes or pulling out the bed, just reholstered his gun and tucked his knife under the pillow. He was asleep before Steve even turned the light off.

He woke up the next morning to the feeling of someone near him. Roger's super human reflexes were the only reason he didn't have a 6 inch knife sticking out of neck. "Woah, sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Steve started as they both shakily came down from their adrenaline highs.

Clint didn't bother to apologize. If these fools hadn't learned not to touch him and Tasha when they were sleeping, then frankly any injury was their own faults. He looked at the clock and noticed it was five to seven. He signed at the loss of 5 minutes of sleep but got up to rummage around in his bag for fresh clothes. "You mind if I grab a shower?" he asked as an olive branch for almost stabbing his squad leader.

"No, go ahead. I was going to see if you wanted me to order you anything for breakfast?" Steve asked and Clint was struck at how different they were. Steve was such a nice guy, and so caring. They were both soldiers but it was like comparing the class of Marlene Dietrich to Paris Hilton. Yes they did the same job but times had changed so much that it was barely recognizable. He only wished he could be like Captain America, that innocent and that clean.

"No, I'll grab something on my way over. Don't get anything for Stark either. Stop someplace random on the way and make sure you see it prepared from common food. Also make sure he has pre wrapped straw and that the wrapper hasn't been compromised," he instructed as he shrugged out of his jacket and kicked off his boots. It was easy to poison the rim of a cup but harder to poison a straw and not have the wrapper be visibly altered.

"Sure, Barton, I'll make sure," he assured as Clint went to shower.

It took him exactly 6 minutes to finish showering, brushing his teeth, shaving, and getting dressed. When he emerged, there was still no sound from Tony and Pepper's room but Rogers was dressed in a plain blue suit that made him look quite handsome. Ok, maybe Clint also admired the man's looks a little too. He wondered how long it would be before Nat left his bed for Steve's. He ignored the thought though, because it had nothing to do with the mission.

"Rogers, get him there no earlier than 5 minutes before his speech. I want him sitting directly behind the podium, I moved a chair there. You need to stay on his left, that's the most likely place a sniper will fire from. Also, when you guys leave, order a limo and two cabs. Take the first one but loop around and come in from the north. Send the other one to come in from the West, the direction of his original hotel. As he walks in, keep your eyes above or below the photographers, don't let the flashes dazzle your vision. It's easy to hide a gun in a sea of flashing cameras. If anything goes down, get him under the podium," he finished as he checked his two pistols, one on his leg and one under his arm, and his hidden knives. No one was supposed to know he was there so no using his bow.

"Where will you be?" Rogers asked, looking stunned.

"I'll meet you there. I'll be on the right side of the podium, behind Tony." He explained as he made his way to the door, tucking his hat and sunglasses into his jacket pocket.

"Barton, how do you know how to do all this, I didn't learn any of that in the Army?" Steve looked so honest in his question.

"Different time and different area of expertise," he answered and left. Sometimes he really wanted to tell the man to wake up and realize what he and Natasha did for SHIELD but now wasn't the time. Steve was so moral, he was afraid he might ask to have them kicked off the Avengers. He would be ambivalent to it but he knew Tash enjoyed working with them.

He jogged back to the park, enjoying the early morning air and the chance to stretch the kinks out of his joints. By the time he reach the area of operation, he was warm, loose, and alert. He spoke with the police and FBI heads and had men placed at specific intervals throughout the crowds and the buildings around them. Local area law enforcement was always such a pain to deal with. Coulson had always been so much better at it than him. Oh well, now there was nothing to do but watch and wait.

He watched every person that filtered in and radioed to have a few checked. So far he had caught several cans of red paint meant for Stark, along with a bag of dog shit, he almost let that one through, and a Molotov cocktail that had been meant for the speaker before Tony. Seriously what was wrong with America today? He also continually scanned the windows and trees within a quarter mile for anything strange. Thus far, there was nothing but a good sniper wouldn't show till right before they fired or they had been set up since before he arrived last night.

He slipped towards the back of the stage as the speakers began arriving and radioed to Cap to see where they were. Apparently they were running late because Tony wanted waffles. That guy was so fucking spoilt it boggled his mind. He couldn't remember a time in his life where he regularly got a choice as to what he wanted to eat. You ate what was given to you or you didn't eat at all. That was how he was raised and couldn't understand someone so privileged as Stark. Later he learned that food was fuel and taste could be ignored in favor of content, especially the hungrier you got. But then again, Natasha was always telling him that he needed to learn to enjoy the finer things so maybe it was him that was weird.

He saw them arrive just as the head of professor from Berkley was ending and he kept his eyes scanning for any movement. Tony took the stage to a giant round of applause as Pepper settled in the front row to watch him. He tuned out Stark's speech and watched buildings. There was a newly opened window that caught his eye, "building 2, 7th floor 3rd window to the left, anybody have eyes in there?" he asked on the open frequency? Why couldn't this have been in Houston or LA? Old cities like Chicago and New York had windows that opened, flat roofs, and fire escapes. Trying to kill someone here was child's play it took a true professional to pull off a distant hit in a locked down city of glass like Houston.

He grabbed a laser pointer and shined it towards the window to see if he could catch a reflection, there was nothing. There was however movement in building 3. "Cap, get him down now!" he shouted, just as the shot bounced of Roger's shield. As he dropped and rolled, he drew his pistol and knelt, aiming at the shooter. He fired twice, ignoring the screams and frantic movement of the crowds. He was rewarded with a rifle dropping from the window. His sensitive vision caught a slight reflection from building 1, a sight being opened, and he fired, hitting the muzzle of the gun and no doubt giving the sniper a broken zygomatic and collar bone.

He turned to Steve, "keep him and Pepper here, I'll be back," he then took off running towards building 1, shouting orders to the police to blockade the building. Before they could, a man with a bloody nose and an already swelling eye came running out, tossing a duffle bag in a dumpster. The police tried to stop him but they were too slow, Clint on the other hand got close enough to shoot him in the back of the calf and drop him cold. He caught up with him, as the police were cuffing him. He smiled to himself and radioed his partner, who was running the investigation side, "Romanov, I have a present for you," he told her and went to make sure the guy was turned over to SHIELD.

TBC

 


	3. Light the Fuse

**Into the Fire 2 – Light the Fuse:**

**Wednesday April 20, 10:38 am**

They had arrived and Rogers had stuck to him like glue. He hadn't even seen Hawkeye yet, figuring he was in a perch somewhere but at least he had left a black clad SHIELD agent on the stage with him that periodically mumbled into his collar. He couldn't hear him though; his earwig was only set to pick up Rogers. Tony didn't recognize the agent but then again, he had his face covered with a black cap and dark sunglasses and was wearing the generic SHIELD style military uniform of cargo pants, black body armor, and a black tactical jacket. The only reason he could tell the guy was SHIELD and not SWAT was the stylized eagle logo on the arm of his jacket.  Frankly Tony wasn't sure how the guy was standing in the direct sunlight in all black and not sweating his ass off.

Tony wasn't sure what had even happened after that. One minute he's delivering a kick ass speech to a crowd that adored him, no one even threw anything at him this time, and the next; Steve is shoving him under the podium; people are screaming; and the non descript SHIELD agent turned out to be Barton, who is nothing but a black blur running past him and shouting orders. It all happened so fast and was over before he could even react. His first thought, once he got his bearings, was Pepper but Steve assured him that he could see her and she was fine. His second thought was that he wasn't setting foot out of his bedroom unless he was wearing his Iron Man suit.

It took all of 10 minutes for Barton to come back, dragging a prisoner with a hastily bandaged wound on his calf. He then piled them into 2 different SHIELD issue sedans, Steve with the prisoner and him and Pepper with Hawkeye, and took off onto the highway. Tony could read nothing on Barton's face, behind his dark glasses and hat. It could be anybody driving the car at this point, for all of the attention his teammate was paying him. He was also slightly embarrassed that a guy that had been living with him off and on for 6 months had been standing 5 feet away from him and he hadn't even recognized him. He wasn't sure if Barton was that good or if he was really that unobservant.

"What the hell happened back there, Barton?" Tony finally asked, tired of waiting for an explanation.

"There were 2 snipers sent to capture you, one of them is with Rogers." He answered, seeming almost bored.

"Where's the other one?" Pepper squeaked.

"On his way to the morgue."

"I see, why do you think they only wanted to capture me and not kill me?" Tony was asking questions at this point just to fill the void of silence. If it was quiet, he might have to think about how close he came to nearly getting snuffed out. God, he hated snipers because if you thought about they were nothing more than government sacntioned serial killers.

"They were aiming for your legs, not a kill zone. My guess is they wanted to wound you and snatch you from the ambulance." He noticed Barton kept moving his head, like he was checking the rearview mirror. Tony wasn't sure he wanted to know what he was looking for but hoping it was just that Steve was still following them.

"What makes you think that?"

"Because that's what I would do." He responded calmly before yelling, "GET DOWN!" and the next thing Tony knew, there was glass exploding onto him, loud gun fire and Pepper screaming. "Both of you stay down, until I tell you otherwise," Barton instructed just as they were rammed from behind.

Tony wasn't a praying man, but he sincerely thought about starting now, especially as he saw Barton yank the parking break up so that the car made a dizzying spin, then release it so they were speeding 80 miles an hour down the highway, backwards. Not only was he driving backwards but he was shooting out of the window at something Tony couldn't see. The car rammed them again, this time from the front and Tony wasn't sure if he or Pepper screamed louder.

"Agent Hill, this is Barton, we're meeting some resistance on our way to the airport. I'm going to need immediate evac at the secondary extract point." Hawkeye sounded so calm, the guys was always so fucking calm. It was not normal. If ever there was a time to freak out, now was it.

"Secondary extract is authorized. There is a Quinjet waiting for you at Great Lakes Naval Center." He heard Agent Hill answer through his earwig. Even she sounded more stressed out than Clint.

"Copy that, we're 41 minutes to rendezvous." Barton responded and took his hands off the steering wheel to reload his pistol and started steering with his knees, while they were now going 96 miles an hour, backwards down the highway. It made Tony sad to realize that he was going to die in a spectacular, fiery car crash because Clint fucking Barton apparently had no adrenaline receptors and didn't realize that he should be scared and showing some measure of caution at a time like this. There was the sound of screeching tires and Tony saw an entire car fly past the driver's side window with a flash of a star spangled shield. Barton didn't even flinch. He reached across the center console and took Pepper's hand, as much for his own sanity as hers. "Stay down," Hawkeye cautioned as he chambered a round.

"Shouldn't you be watching the road!" Tony shouted as Barton fired. Then Hawkeye was again yanking on the parking break, only this time drifting them sideways as a hummer, with a clearly dead driver, careened past them into the guardrail. With another jerking turn, he had them back straight and facing forward, weaving in and out of the now northbound traffic on Highway 94.

"Cap, you ok back there?" Clint called into his radio, finally dropping their speed below 80 and motioning that Tony and Pepper could get off the floor boards.

"Yes, we're fine how about you guys?" He heard Steve respond, sounding relieved.

"We're good. I don't think I'll get the security deposit back on the car, though," he joked and Tony felt like punching him.

Less than 2 hours later, they were in the Quinject with the prisoner bound and ready for transport. Tony thought it might have been a bit of overkill that Barton had shackled him to the seat, by his feet, triple zip tied his wrists and forearms to the armrests, duct taped his thumbs to his palms, the rest of his fingers into a fist, put a black bag over his head, noise canceling headphones, winter green under his nose, taped his eyes shut, put on a secondary blind fold, sedated him with 20 ml of Halcyon, and finally made sure all the windows in the cabin were closed so no natural light got in. He almost mentioned something but then remembered the story Barton had told them about being captured and bound yet still being able to let Coulson know his location. He supposed the caution made sense but then again, how many people were as good as Hawkeye and Coulson.

He was going to ask, but as soon as they were in the air, Barton turned to Steve and asked to him to keep an eye on the prisoner. After Rogers agreed, Clint slouched down, propped his feet up, pulled his hat down over his eyes and promptly dozed off.

After they landed, Romanov whisked the prisoner away, probably never to be seen or heard from again and Tony decided that now was a good time for a cocktail and a nap. He didn't wake up again until Fury showed up to try and convince Romanov and Barton to go undercover. After which there was a few hours of stress until they agreed. He wasn't sure why they had been so reticent but then again, he didn't know why they did half the things they did.

**Thursday April 21, 6:07 am**

Steve entered the gym to find it already occupied by Agent Barton. It wasn't at all odd to see his fellow Avenger up this early and working out. In fact, they frequently ran together or Steve watched him and his partner spar. What was odd was that the sniper was working over one of the dummies with a wooden knife. The other man looked tired and Steve figured he probably hadn't slept well, if at all. Nearly all of the Avengers, himself included seemed to have some level of sleep issues. They were all different, Tony for example went for weeks and seemed to never sit still but then alternately would go weeks and seem to mope around and do nothing but sleep. Natasha suffered from nightmares that had her up and pacing if Barton wasn't around. Hawkeye on the other hand seemed to be more like Steve himself and have problems falling asleep but could stay asleep once he did. Of course it seemed with the sniper that when he did sleep it was because he was so exhausted or so heavily medicated that it took an act of Congress to wake him.

"Good morning Agent Barton," Steve greeted, as Clint brutally sank his knife into the side of the gel dummies throat and yanked it back out through the front. It would have severed both arteries and the windpipe in a real person. There would be no getting back up from that. At first, Steve had assumed that Clint must not have been very good at hand to hand, as he always opted to fight from a distance when possible. He then actually saw him in action and realized that he was almost as good as Natasha and may actually be better than himself. The big difference being, that while Steve was stronger and faster, Clint was more schooled and vicious. Cap fought to stop men and only killed when there was no other choice where the two SHIELD agents only allowed people to live if there was no other choice.

"Morning, Rogers," he responded, and switched the knife to his other hand.

"The scuttlebutt is that you and Romanov agreed to take the mission," he started as he wrapped his hands to start working over the heavy bag. Talking to Barton was sometimes fun and sometimes like getting a root canal. Steve was from a time when men were much less likely to talk about thoughts and feeling and even he found Hawkeye to be a bit of a cold fish sometimes. The man could take uncommunicative to an art form.

"Yup," he made a lightening quick upward stab between the fifth and sixth ribs. The jab would have gone through the lung and punctured the heart, a nearly instant kill.

"You want to spar?" Steve tried, he wanted to understand his team and of them all, he felt like he could relate to Barton the most but at the same time knew him the least. They tended to fall into an easy rhythm of CO and soldier that he didn't have with any of the other's on the team. Working with Clint was like working with one of the Howling Commandos, there was no questioning, just doing your job and doing it better than anyone. Though yesterday, Barton had proved he was more than capable of taking charge.

Hawkeye gave him an odd look before resheathing his practice knife and leading Steve over to the sparring mats.

"Don't worry, I'll go easy on you," Steve smiled at him, misreading the odd expression for fear.  They  had never sparred before. 

Clint cocked his head and smiled back, "OK, I'll go easy on you too." Steve laughed and they started sparring. He shouldn't have laughed. Yes, he was faster and stronger than Barton, but that guy could bend and flip like a spring. He had only seen him fight anyone other than Natasha once and didn't know his fighting style very well. It turned out, he was hopelessly outclassed when it came to technique.

After the 3rd time in a row Clint had managed to get him into a grappling hold, this one he had never even seen before. Clint had him with his head pressed into the mat, while he bent Steve's arm behind him and partially sat on him, using his leg and hand to bend the Captain's shoulder into a most uncomfortable angle. Steve tapped the mat twice indicating he gave up and Barton released him. He sat up on his knees as Clint crouched off to the side watching him, "guess I shouldn't hold back anymore," he laughed and rubbed his shoulder.

"Guess I won't either," the Hawk smiled back at him and Rogers figured that if he were a normal person, it would be pretty scary.

They spent the next hour or so beating the crap out of each other. Rogers was impressed at the guy's ability to hold his own against him but at the same time it showed him that he really needed to brush up on the more modern fighting styles. They were both drenched in sweat and panting; Barton more tired but Rogers more bruised, when Steve's growling stomach called a halt to their bout. He had learned a lot about Clint's fighting style though, he wasn't nearly as flashy as Natasha and seemed to have two modes. He either tried to evade his opponent, which was usually comprised of blocks and fast foot work. Or, he tried to kill on the first shot, making sure he didn't have to worry about escaping them a second time. He also learned that Clint's roundhouse kick was like getting hit by a truck.  What he hadn't figured out, was why Barton and Romanov were so reluctant to help Tony.

"I guess it's time for breakfast?" he smiled and blushed as his stomach gave another loud growl.

Hawkeye pulled up his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face and looked at the clock. "Why don't we hit the showers and I'll make us something to eat," he offered and Steve realized a mealtime setting might be more conducive to chatting than time spent trying to beat the other one into submission.

"Sounds great. I can help. I finally learned how to use Tony's toaster." They walked out together, and he was secretly glad they wouldn't be sharing a shower. He still didn't know how he felt about living with a gay guy.

"Duly noted but I think I can handle it, sir" he called as he headed into the West stairwell and Steve hit the Eastern one.

After a quick shower and change of clothes, Steve entered the kitchen to find Barton frying bacon and whipping eggs and milk into a fluffy mixture. He was once again dressed his is SHIELD issue military uniform of head to toe mortician black. It was odd to see someone carrying a gun yet domestically puttering around the kitchen making scrambled eggs, especially a man. He noticed there was already toast and condiments on the table along with orange juice so he sank down and grabbed a slice. He smiled that there was also milk out as him and Barton were the only ones that regularly drank milk straight. As odd as it was, he was so happy Clint started to cook for all of them rather than just himself and Natasha. There was nothing like a home cooked breakfast to start the day and the unspoken message that Barton was starting to actually tolerate them off the battle field.

Barton finished making the eggs and served them, finally sinking down to the table himself after setting aside a plate for Natasha when she got out of the shower. Apparently she didn't live by the Army standard that showers should be less than 10 minutes. They ate in silence for a minute before Steve tried to broach the subject of the mission again.

"This is good, thanks for cooking. I was never much good at it before and now I don't even know what half the things in this kitchen do."

"It's no trouble. When Tasha and I are here, is the only time I get to cook. I actually find it sort of relaxing," Barton admitted as he put ketchup on his eggs. Steve followed suit because that was how he liked them too. Banner liked to put some weird red stuff with tomatoes, peppers, and onions on it that he thought was gross.

"Oh, I guess guys like you enjoy cooking, huh?" Steve tried.

Clint smiled at him again, a definite twinkle in his eyes and Rogers really hoped that he wasn't going to hit on him. "Does it really bother you that much, the thought that I'm gay?" he asked.

"Well, no, not exactly, I just have never really known anyone," he stuttered through an explanation, knowing that he was blushing.

"Relax, Rogers, I'm not actually gay. I just said that to shut Stark up," he grinned at the older man. Steve couldn't tell what he was supposed to get from that grin. He had never really dealt with spooks before and it made Barton and Romanov confusing. Everything about them could be so calculated and they both seemed to switch from one person to another at the drop of a hat. He liked to think he got along well with the real Clint, who was kind of quiet but also kind of funny when he got to know you but then again, he wasn't sure which was the real Clint.

"Oh," he would never admit how relieved he was to hear that. "Why would you say it then? Can't you make Tony be quiet another way?"

"I could try breaking his jaw," he tossed out as a possibility, "but he could still talk then, he'd just be harder to understand," he joked then continued. "Actually I was tired of Stark poking around in things that are only between me and Tasha. The nature of our relationship or lack thereof, is none of his or anyone else's business."

"I understand," Steve consoled, never once showing that he was just as curious as everyone else. Natasha reminded him of a much more extreme version of Peggy and he wouldn't mind asking her on a date, if she were single.

"Yeah, it would have worked for awhile too, if Nat hadn't opened her big, stupid mouth and told him the truth."

"The truth?" he asked, noticing that Clint seemed to like his eggs just as salty as he himself did. "Are you guys really sweethearts?"

Clint chuckled and reached for his milk, "I don't think 'sweethearts' is the right term for it but yes we do have sex with each other." His answer was calm and flat. No boasting, no bragging, just unruffled relaying of the facts. Ok, maybe he wouldn't have fit in that well with the other Commandos. All of them would have shouted at the top of their lungs if they even made it to first base with a dame as pretty as Natasha.

"I see, are you two engaged?"

"No, why would we be?" Clint looked confused.

"If you two love each other enough to, have sex," he whispered the sex part, still not comfortable with talking about it out loud the way everyone now a day's does, "then shouldn't you get married?"

Barton rose and began to fill two plates with breakfast foods and prepare some snooty gourmet coffee Tony loved before he finally answered, "what the hell does love have to do with anything?" His voice was as devoid of emotion as Jarvis.

"Hawkeye, why were you and Natasha so against taking this mission? Do you really not care what happens to Tony?"

Clint turned his back to him and busied himself with cutting fruit into star shapes with steady hands. "No, not particularly but that's not it. It's just, I'm not keen on going back to the Middle East or going undercover in the Army. I don't like lying to other soldiers," he answered, voice sounding controlled.

"Why don't you want to go back?" Steve wondered if it was something specific or if Clint just didn't like combat. The latter seemed unlikely given how well he fought alongside Romanov and the other Avengers.

"It's tough to explain. I spend 3 almost 4 years there fighting Taliban, al-Qaeda, Hezbollah, and anyone else I was ordered to. It wasn't a high point of my life."

"I understand how tough it can be, believe me," Steve started.

"With all due respect, sir, I don't think you do. You were in active combat for what 6 months and you only fought Commando missions not all out war. Plus you had a clear cut enemy, they wore uniforms and declared themselves. Iraq and Afghanistan weren't like that. You were seen as liberators, we were seen as conquerors. People walked up to you smiling, while they hid a bomb in your transport. They didn't wear uniforms and you couldn't tell friend from foe. They used children as decoys and dead bodies to hide bombs.  You had no choice but to deal with the fact that you were going to end up killing innocent people," he answered, still no inflection, no affect, no emotion. "I didn't really like the person I was, when I did that," he finished, then added, "I need to go wake up Stark, I'll see you later," he walked out with a full tray of food and coffee. Yeah he was the most comfortable around Barton but maybe for the wrong reasons. Clint was quiet, reserved, and military, just like him, therefore Clint never challenged him to break out of his own mindset the way Tony did. In a sense, Barton was his security blanket.

**Thursday April 21, 8:30 am**

Tony woke to the feel of the bed moving and the sweet smell of gourmet coffee and a salty breakfast. Depending on how much he had to drink the night before, that was either heaven or vomit inducing. Lucky today it was ambrosia. He unfortunately opened his eyes to see a damp headed Clint Barton in head to toe black, staring at him and hold a tray of delectable looking treats. The agent graced him with a dead eyed smile, an altogether unkind and disturbing look for so early in the day. It was similar to the look the assassin gave before he stuck an arrow through someone's wind pipe.  

"Good morning, Stark. I thought you might be hungry," he then turned to Pepper who was staring owlishly at him as well. "Here, dig in," he handed her a plate and a cup of coffee.

"Thank you, Agent Barton," she tugged on her nightie to straighten it and accepted the platter of eggs, bacon, fruit, and toast. She had learned not to call him 'Clint.' Natasha did not allow other women to be that familiar with him. Tony often wondered how good she must be in the sack for Barton to still be so pussy whipped even with her insane jealousy. Either that or she knew where he hid a body. Regardless that wasn't important right now.

"What are you doing in my bedroom? And how did you get in here anyway, Jarvis?" he asked. He was never at his best before noon and it was only 8:30.

"You give Jarvis too much credit. It isn't hard to bypass him," Clint scoffed and waved the wonderful cup of coffee at him enough for the steam to tickle his nose only to pull it away as Tony reached for it. The man was such a dick!

"He is the most sophisticated AI on the planet!" Tony defended.

"Must be why people managed to come in and rig a bomb under your lab," he countered and twisted so he was facing Tony.

"I repeat, what are you doing here?" he grumped. The sex must be transcendent for Natasha to put up this assneck on a regular basis. At the moment he honestly couldn't find a single redeeming quality in the turd.

"I need bombs," he handed the plate to Tony but kept the live giving elixir. "I have the spec sheets for all Stark weapons downloaded and read through them last night, but I need real ones to practice on."

"You want me to get you weapons, why?"

"I need to know how to disarm them and how to spot yours that were bought on the black market vs. newly built fakes. To do that, I need actual weapons to study, not just specs," he answered like he was asking to borrow one of Tony's DVDs and not weapons of mass destruction. "Oh and I'll need you to show me how to defuse them," he finished.

"I can't do that," he stuttered. Did this lunatic know what he was asking? Stark weapons were the best of the best. They could kill anything and he just wanted live ones to practice on.

"Ms. Potts, can you find me someone that can?" he turned to Tony's bed mate and he might have been annoyed at her blush if he didn't know that Barton would never dream of cheating on Romanov. Still sort of bugged him, though, Pepper's soft spot for this douche bag.

"Well, I can look up a few weapons' techs and see who would be the best for you to work with," she started, already getting ready to rise.

"No," Tony started, unwilling to involve his girlfriend in the ugly side of his business again. "No, I'll take care of it," he conceded

"Thank you," Barton finally handed over the coffee and it was fucking perfect, hot, a splash of cream and two sugars. It was just the way he liked it and it was a bit unnerving that Clint "dickwad" Barton knew how he liked his coffee. "Please have them sent to the SHIELD base outside of the city. I'll head over there this afternoon," he rose to leave.

"Wait," Tony stopped him, "I'll have them sent here We can work underground. Besides, we'll need Jarvis to help override the computer systems. I'll have them ready next week."

"I need them this afternoon, no later than tomorrow," he countered, crossing his arms and shifting his weight from his left leg to balance on both evenly.

"Are you nuts, you want to learn how to disarm all my weapons starting today, after studying specs for 1 night?" Tony was incredulous. It had taken him 18 years to design them and this dimwit thought he could figure them out in one day.

"I have to be in Iraq in 8 days, one of them is going to be spent at Ft. Benning picking out my Staff Sergeant and one will be spent in transit. That leaves me 6 days to learn how to wire and disarm any of the weapons they may have bootlegged like it was second nature. The sooner we can start the better," he looked over Tony's head for a moment then locked eyes with him, "There were two more bombings last night, 280 people were killed or injured," he explained and Stark started to realize just how fucked up this whole mission was going to be.

Tony, Bruce, and Steve were rarely involved in the cloak and dagger stuff Barton and Romanov did for SHIELD. They saw bits and pieces, Natasha trying on dresses for Barton's opinion while he sat propped against her pillows detangling her jewelry (seriously, why can't women understand that if you throw all your necklaces in a bag, they will get knotted up?). There were also the times he had seen one or both of them walking around the tower listening to Rosetta Stone to brush up on another language. Mostly it was them sitting huddled together with her reading bios and him looking at maps and schematics. This level of detail into the non Avenger's job was unsettling.

"OK, let me see what I can do," he finished and looked into his coffee, as Barton left. Pepper put her hand in his hair, stroking it into less bedhead.

"At least they agreed to help you, that makes me feel much better about this whole thing," she tried but he couldn't muster up the same feelings. He was trading his own safety for Barton's, which in theory shouldn't bother him but for some reason did.

"I have a bad feeling about this," he told her and moved his plate. He wasn't hungry anymore.

**Sunday April 24, 7:42 pm**

Bruce wrapped a paper towel around the grilled cheese sandwich he had prepared and placed it on a plate beside some carrot sticks, potato chips, and 2 chocolate chip cookies. He wasn't entirely sure he had chosen correctly, but he hoped Barton would at least eat the food, if not enjoy it. Natasha, himself, Tony (especially Tony), and even Steve seemed to have well defined tastes when it came to food and drinks. Clint on the other hand seemed to eat anything you gave him with the same level of enjoyment regardless of how cheap or expensive it was. The only thing he had ever definitively commented on were some gel packets SHIELD had given him that he refused to take on a mission and made his handler go exchange for red ones. Something about them tasting like lemonade flavored vomit, which if they did, he didn't blame the man for returning them. As far as everything else went, he seemed pretty easy going.

He grabbed a glass and filled it with ice tea and headed towards the basement. He was a bit worried that Clint hadn't come up since he had gone down there, well before Bruce had even woken up. Natasha had left around noon to go study some additional information about the patterns the bombs were moving. Because she was gone, no one bothered to notice that Barton hadn't come up for lunch or dinner. Bruce might not have even noticed either, if he hadn't wondered out of his lab and realized that there was no covered plate of delicious, home cooked food waiting for him. Instead there was a box of Chinese and a fortune cookie with his name sticky taped to it. He had tracked down Tony; after he had eaten, not eating made The Other Guy cranky; and discovered that their landlord hadn't ordered anything for Hawkeye because, "he couldn't be bothered to show his face so he could make his own damn food." Bruce knew the bluster for what it was, Tony being cranky because Clint hadn't cooked for him.

He headed towards the elevator and ran into Rogers, on his way back to the gym. He realized Steve's insane boxing was a form of meditation for the super soldier, a safe place and a safe form of kinetic contemplation to help him work through his issues. Didn't mean it didn't make him feel like a lazy slug but oh well, he wasn't a fighter, not normally. "Good evening, Steve," he smiled at the taller man. He wasn't one to be jealous of other's looks but he was jealous of Roger's looks.

"Hi Bruce," he waved, and looked at the plate and drink, "didn't like the Chinese?" he joked. He knew that their Captain was having a hard time dealing with Tony's champagne and caviar tastes. It would surprise him in the least if Steve didn't like Chinese fusion.

"I actually thought it was great. This is for Barton, Tony didn't order him anything and Jarvis said he hasn't been up to the kitchen since seven this morning. I thought I would bring him a snack."

"That's considerate. Mind if I join you. I have to admit, I'm a little worried about this mission. Barton and Natasha never seemed nervous or worried about going out but they both seem really unhappy about this one. I keep thinking I should talk to Fury about pulling them."

"I know what you mean," Bruce allowed Steve to precede him into the elevator, "they are both really jumpy about this and it's making me jumpy. Have either of them told you why? It can't all be because Clint will be the one going under cover and Natasha will be the backup."

"I asked Barton about it, but all he said was that he wasn't happy with the idea of going back to the Middle East and that I wouldn't understand this kind of war," Steve answered as the elevator opened and Tony walked in carrying a bottle of cognac and a straw.

"Your thing looks less self destructive, where are we going?" he asked as he entered the elevator.

"Basement to drop off some food for Barton. He hasn't left since this morning," Bruce filled it. "So was that all he said, Steve?"

"Yes, he said a few things about being a conqueror verses a liberator but didn't really say why it bothered him so much. Every time I have tried to ask him about it, he has changed the subject or just plan ignored me," he older man sighed.

"I've tried a few times too, but he avoids the subject like the plague. Natasha was of no help either," Bruce threw in. Once Barton had stonewalled him, he had tried going to Romanov, she had been nicer about it but she basically gave the same answer, 'it's none of his business.'

The elevator opened and they were met with the cool air of the underground room and the soft sounds of a radio playing Billy Idol's "Rock the Cradle" in the background. Barton was sitting on a rolly stool hunched over a missile. He completely ignored them until he had apparently finished, then turned off his stop watch, finally looking up at them. He flexed his fingers stared at them. Bruce couldn't miss the still bleeding cuts on his hands or the dark circles under his eyes. He had learned early on, that Barton was a chronic insomniac. As someone who was privy to all their medical histories, he knew Natasha suffered from frequent nightmares, Clint had massive problems falling asleep, and Tony was an undiagnosed or maybe ignored, bi-polar. Barton actually had the easiest problem to treat. A few milligrams of sedative and he was good. It was obvious he hadn't taken any last night or maybe even the night before.

"Can I help you guys?" he asked when no one moved. He suspected that Steve was as stunned as himself to see at least 300 missiles, bomb, and other assorted devices lined up in various stages of completion. Some were untouched and some had been totally dismantled. So this was what Hawkeye had been doing down here all by himself.

"I brought you some dinner," Bruce started and walked forward, as Clint tucked a pair of wire cutters into a pocket in on his belt. He then flexed his fingers and reopened a cut on his middle knuckle. "It isn't much, just a grilled cheese sandwich. I wasn't sure what you liked so I thought everyone likes grilled cheese," he babbled.

"Thanks," Barton accepted the plate and set it down and rolled over to another missile that looked just like the one he had finished.

"How many of those do you plan to destroy, even though I told you more than once there was a computer override?" Tony asked, sticking his straw into the top of his bottle of liquor. Bruce suspected his fellow scientist was moving into a low phase, hence the self medicating with alcohol.

"As many as I have time to disarm," he set his stop watch and started in on removing the bolted cover.

"Still doesn't explain why you don't use the computer to deactivate it. That takes about 10 seconds," Tony took one of the potato chips off Barton's plate and Bruce glared at him. Stark moved away from the food. It sort of amused Bruce that of all of the Avengers and other various and sundry folks around Tony, only Pepper, Col. Rhodes, and himself could glare him into submission. He wasn't sure why he could, if it was The Other Guy or their friendship but either way, it was kind of neat.

"Because what I'll run into will be IEDs, improvised explosive devices, not nicely programmed explosive devices. There is no indication that your computer files have been compromised, just the general designs. I can't rely on the idea that I can use a computer to disarm them," he explained. It bothered him how flat and dull Barton sounded. The man's voice generally had fairly flattened affect but this was worse.

"Do you want some help deactivating these?" Steve tried. Banner knew it was really bothering Rogers that his "army buddy" was unhappy. Steve had far and away bonded the most with Barton, primarily because they had so much in common. Of course the differences were just as pronounced. Steve was an open book, while Barton was like trying to read backwards greek, through a brick wall. Rogers was genuinely a nice guy while, Clint's motivations could be murky at best.

"No, no thanks, Cap. I'll do them. I need to practice till it become muscle memory." He didn't look up, just started to pull wires and examine junctions. He suspected that the man might have made a good electrical engineer, even though he knew his degree was in structural engineering. It had actually shocked him at first that the seemingly dim witted sniper had a college education, albeit from mostly on line classes. He had asked him why structural engineering and Barton had answered, 'so I know the most efficient way to blow shit up," and walked off. He hadn't bothered asking again.

"Ok, well try and take some time to eat something ok?" he asked as he turned to leave herding the other two with him. It was clear Barton wanted to be left alone, sadly a state he spent most of his time in, unless Natasha was around.

Back in the elevator Steve seemed upset. "I was hoping to get some time to talk to him before he headed to Fort Benning tomorrow."

"Yeah, well, what's the point?" Tony asked, already slurring but then again he was drinking cognac through a wacky straw.

"He's our teammate and something about this mission is clearly bothering him and Natasha. We should figure out what it is and find a way to help." Rogers insisted.

"If they want our help, they'll ask for it, besides, they aren't the one someone is trying to kill or capture," Tony defended. "I'm the king of this chess game, which makes Barton the queen, which is actually sort of funny," he giggled.

"True, but maybe they don't think they can trust us for help. It doesn't hurt to offer, if only I could figure out why this is bothering both of them."

"Why don't we pull their personal files and have a look to see if anything jumps out?" Tony perked up, always happy to go against SHIELD's computer defenses.

"Why bother, I suspect it's in his psych files," Bruce jumped in, when he saw that Cap was gearing up to go on a super moral rant.

"Fine, I'll start there," Tony stuck his chin out and he could see Steve was fighting the urge to punch him in it. Strangely Tony was the only one that seemed to bring out an offensively violent side of Rogers. But then again, Bruce could see how most people might think about punching him.

"I already have them," Banner called over his shoulder as he exited into his lab, the other two following behind him.

"How?" Steve asked.

"Really," Tony smiled, "let me see, let me see." He flexed his hands in a grabby motion.

"No, but I will tell you what a colleague of mine that happens to be a world renown psychiatrist says," he crossed his arms, waiting to see if Stark would settle for his offer. It worked and the man hooked his foot around a stool and sat down, elbows resting on the table with his cognac and straw between them, inches from his mouth. Steve stood quietly. "His reticence to talk about the mission is typical Avoidance," Bruce explained.

"I know he is avoiding it, but why?" Steve asked, clearly not understanding.

"Not avoidance but Avoidance, it's a symptom of PTSD. Don't forget how young Barton was when he was sent into some of the worst fighting over there. Plus he had no support system, no family, no church, no real friends. Not to mention he was the only member of his original squad to make it past six months. Dr. Samson thinks it's a combination of PTDS that has never been properly treated and a good deal of survivor's guilt." Tony nodded in understanding but Steve still looked lost.

"I don't get it. What's PTSD?"

"It's a mental illness, an anxiety disorder," Bruce started but Roger's interrupted him.

"Barton isn't crazy. He isn't a some head case; he's a man." And Bruce understood the disconnect. In Steve's time, veterans with issues like this were seen as crazy or weak, rather than sick. He apparently hadn't caught up on the last 70 years of knowledge, understanding, and acceptance of mental illness.

"He's not crazy, at least not about this, it just means that something so bad happened to him over there that he has problems dealing with it. Think of it like really bad Shell Shock. I'm sure you have noticed the difference since he took the mission. He's drawing away from all of us more, isolating himself. And when he talks about anything that has to do with the mission or why he doesn't want to take it, his voice completely lacks affect at least more so than usual." Bruce explained. "Those are symptoms of PTSD. That drawing away and being so emotionally compartmentalized are coping mechanisms so he can still function even though deep down he's probably scared to death. He really should talk to someone about. His file said he would sometimes talk to Agent Coulson but apparently not the Psyche team." He could see that Steve understood what he was talking about now, no one could miss the way Clint was closing himself off, not after he had finally come out of his shell around them.

"So what do we do to help him, should we tell Fury they can't go?" Captain asked, thinking about the welfare of his men.

"Hell no, then who is going to stop those people from coming after me?" Tony threw in but Steve ignored him.

"I don't know but I do think that we need to be supportive of whatever he and Natasha need when this is over," Banner finished and Steve nodded, leaving to beat up some punching bags. Tony on the other hand had fallen asleep with his head on the table. Doc Samson would have a field day with this team. From schitzy Natasha to bipolar Tony, they were a collection of maladjusted freaks. Some were just better at hiding it than others.

**Friday April 29** **th** **, 11:09 am**

Tony had mixed feelings about going to Iraq with Romanov and Barton. His feelings about letting Pepper come with him were not mixed. At least in this, he had won the fight and she remained in New York. So it was just the Avengers, minus Bruce, who thought it best he stay away from the high stress environment of a warzone, sitting in Tony's private jet. The flight was long and boring. Most of it spend watching Barton school Romanov on how to wear her Lt.'s uniform or how to salute correctly so she could pass for regular army.

What he found the most interesting, other than trying to annoy Steve, was as they were getting ready to land, she became more talkative and he became very quiet. They were also very touchy feely with each other. She rested her head on his shoulder and he held her hand. The final straw was when she reached over and grabbed his face, pulling their foreheads together, with her hand on the back of his neck. She whispered something to him in Russian that Tony didn't catch and he smiled.

They stayed that way, until the plane was done taxiing and at a standstill on the tarmac. He then heard her clearly say, "you take care of yourself, ok Clint," she rubbed her thumb against the hairline on the back of his neck.

"You too, Natashen'ka," he pressed a kiss onto her forehead, his nose buried in her hair. It was the most loving he had ever seen them around each other. It didn't last though. Less than 10 seconds later they were Agent Romanov and Agent Barton and no one would think they even knew each other.

Tony looked over at Barton and Romanov, both in their baggy fatigues. They looked strange on them both. Natasha because he was used to seeing her in skin tight clothes with her hair fluttering around her face. She looked sever and unfriendly with the tight bun and cap. Barton was equally disquieting due to the color of his clothes. Tony was used to seeing the agent in baggy tactical clothing with a bazillion pockets and other assorted things but it was usually black. Seeing him in the tan and brown desert dress was strange. Clint was much more at home than Natasha that was obvious.

They exited onto the tarmac and it felt like opening an oven door. Tony pushed his sunglasses further up his nose and felt his heart rate speed up at the sound of the adhan blaring in the background. He caught the smell of gasoline, gun oil and Baharat. Before he knew what was happening, he was struggling to breath and remember that he was safe. Rogers, Romanov, and Barton were there with him and his suit was in the case in his hand. He wasn't alone, he wasn't a prisoner, he wasn't fighting for his freedom and his life.

He felt someone slap him on the shoulder and looked over to see Barton give him an odd smile. "I know how you feel," he said then slung his duffle over his shoulder, picked up his gun cases, and led Natasha over to a tan Hummer that would take them to their base.

TBC


	4. Watch it Burn

A/N 2: There is a slight crossover in the next few chapters with G I JOE, but nothing that you would have to know its cannon to enjoy.

**Chapter 3: Watch it Burn:**

**Friday April 29** **th** **, 11:09 am Baghdad, Iraq**

Natasha watched her partner stomp towards the Humvee, expecting her to follow him. Since they had stepped off the plane, she knew she wouldn't see Barton again because now she was Lt. Natalie Tokarev from New York City and he was Captain Ben Pierce from Mechanicsburg, PA. It was another inside joke between him and Phil, since that had been Coulson's hometown. He had picked it for Pierce's fictional biography because Clint had been there enough to know his way around and if pressed, he could recount some part of Squawks's history. She actually thought it was cute because it sort of made him Coulson's little brother. At least he didn't go so far as to make Pierce's father an instructor at the Army War College like retired General Coulson. You wouldn't think that she could immediately pick out the difference between Pierce and Barton but to her it was obvious, from the way he walked straight ahead without scanning side to side, to the sir name insignia on the front of his uniform (like all Special Forces, Clint didn't display his last name on his uniform). Because of the lack of privacy at military bases and the differences of where they would be working, she didn't know the next time she would get to see her partner and that made her sort of sad.

Two soldiers stood awaiting them, and both perked up and saluted as Clint came near them. She couldn't miss the way the driver looked her up and down and she pretended to have difficulty keeping up with Barton's longer, steady strides. After Clint's schooling, she immediately recognized him as a Private 1st Class. Frankly he barely looked old enough to drive. The other one was build like a brick shit house and she was pretty sure that his biceps were bigger than her thighs. He had close cropped auburn hair, brown eyes, and an Airborne Ranger tattoo on his forearm.

What was with Army men and their tattoos, even Clint had one. It was on the left side of his chest, over his heart and was a knife, with 2 crossed arrows and a scroll that said " _De oppresso liber."_ She never mentioned it, assuming it had something to do with being an archer but then she had been lying in bed beside him and tracing it with her fingers and asked him what it meant. He had answered "Liberate from Oppression." She had pointed out that that was not what it said, that would be  _"De Oppressione Liberare."_ Afterwards he had gotten grumpy and told her to take up with the US Army. She finally looked it up and realized it was the Green Beret's motto, of which he was the best of the best, a Delta Force Operator. He had another one, but she had learnt not to bring that one up.

Though he didn't wear it as much on his sleeve as Rogers did, Clint was still very proud of the fact he was a soldier. Unlike Steve, though, it had nothing to do with patriotism or the need to defeat an evil regime. Nor did Barton care about the glory that followed Captain America around everywhere he went. No one would ever know the things he had done until he was dead or the time lapse for the Freedom of Information Act kicked in. She had asked him once, why he didn't just leave, why did he stay in the Army when he was so much better at being a spy than a grunt. He had looked at her and quoted Shakespeare's  _Henry V, "we few, we happy few, we band of brothers, whoever has shed blood with me shall be my brother,"_  and told her until she could understand that, she wouldn't get it. It was one of the rare things about him that she just couldn't grasp. She didn't risk her life for people she didn't know or didn't care about. That was just stupid. In fact, she couldn't guarantee she would risk her lives for most of the other Avengers.

"At ease," he told the two enlisted men as he saluted back. He then held his hand out to the red head, who wore the stripes of a Staff Sergeant. "Sgt. Sneeden," he nodded.

"Captain Pierce, Lt. Tokarev," his accent was thick with Alabama, his voice growling. "Y'all ready to head to the base? Your gear should be on the way there already."

"I've got the only gear I care about," Clint smiled and patted his two riffles. One was a standard assault rifle; the other was his beloved sniper rifle. Short of his bow, it was his most prized possession.  "So let's get out of here. After 14 hours of listening to Tony Stark whine about everything from his stewardesses not wearing short enough skirts to the private plane being too cold, I could use something to shoot at." Sneeden smiled at him but it did nothing to make him look more attractive or kinder. He reminded her of a bull mastiff in human form and he smelled about like one too.

On the way around the car, she heard the Private, Watson was his name, say, "man, I'd love to tap that ass?" Which caused Clint and Sneeded to whip around and glare at the man. She thought nothing of it, used to those types of comments, because come on, she did have a great ass.

"What did you say, Private?" Barton questioned him.

"Nothing, sir," the kid froze up, not realizing how loud he had been.

"Damn straight you said nothing, troop, because that ass belongs to the US Army and I don't allow my officers regardless of gender to be disrespected. Do I make myself clear?" Hawkeye barked at him.

"Sir, yes, sir!" the man nearly yelled.

Sneeden opened the door for her and she slid in the backseat beside Clint, with a quiet, "thank, sir," which caused him to give her a funny look.

Barton leaned over to her, once they were driving and whispered, "Don't call him sir, you're an officer and he is an NCO. He salutes first and calls you sir, not the other way around. Remember, stripes on their arm, they salute you, anything else, you salute them."

"I got it," she groused, annoyed she had forgotten. They rode the rest of the way in silence as she looked out over the Iraqi landscape. She wanted to take Clint's hand but she couldn't they weren't friends; they were only supposed to have met because they were flying over protecting Tony.

They drove for a time, and passed a man walking two very elegant horses and she saw a sweet, involuntary smile curve on her partner's lips. Few would ever guess it, but Clint Barton loved animals. He liked cats and dogs well enough, pitbulls for some reason being one of his favorites. In fact she still internally giggled at how happy he was with one of their jobs because they had to pretend to be a family, complete with a kid (she never asked where or how SHIELD had had found a little girl that looked so much like her and Clint because she wouldn't put it past them to cloning them in their sleep. Seriously the kid even had curly, red hair like her and blue eyes and freckles like his) and a dog. He had picked out a female pit bull named Apple, though she had wanted a Dalmatian (she thought the spots were cute) and Natasha had dressed her up in a hot pink, rhinestone harness just to be a bitch and ruin the tough guy look. Didn't matter though, Clint still proudly walked her around, cuddled with her on the couch, and taught her to do about 100 different tricks. Though, even she had to admit after a few weeks the brick-headed dog had grown on her. That had been 2 years ago and Clint still stopped by the SHIELD kennels as often as he could to see her, usually at least twice a week. Maybe she should ask Tony if they could bring her back to the tower. Hawkeye would love that.

His love for dogs that resembled brindle tanks aside, he had a natural affinity for horses. At first, she had found it quite odd and dismissed it as she herself had actually been a little afraid of the large, unpredictable creatures. But then they had a mission where they had had to ride to where they were going and he had opened up about having grown up in the country, on a farm. He had described it as so back water and white trash that until he was 9, he only wore shoes if he was going with his mama to town. Because he grew up so far removed from society, his brother and the farm animals were his only friends. She wasn't a shrink but she was pretty sure that had a lot to do with his personality. To this day, he still had a picture of his grey, spotted pony, Dapples; none of his family just his first horse. Then later, when he was at the Circus, he had had to bunk near the animals and eventually used a horse for trick riding and shooting. She still didn't love them the way he did, but now she could appreciate them and one day, when they were out of the game, she was going to get some land and buy him a couple horses just so she could see that soft smile more often. It was also why her most private nickname for him that she never used, when anyone could hear them, was Cossack. Cossacks being the go to horsemen a Russian would think of since she didn't go grow up with romanticized cowboys.

As they approached the base, it was about what she had expected. She had only ever been to a military base in Iraq once, and it had only been for about 2 hours before they had gotten her partner packaged up to send him to Germany after his stint as a POW in Afghanistan. It was wired, ugly, and everyone looked alike, except for one group of men that stood leaning casually in the shade of one of the buildings. They were more heavily armed than the others and all had longer hair, beards, or were missing parts of their uniforms. Most of them also had brightly colored keffiyeh around their necks, like Barton wore when he was tooling around the desert, but they were clearly of European descent. She also noticed that Clint ducked his head and turned away from them until they were past.

Once they had come to a halt, he grabbed her arm and whispered, "you get Hill on the horn and tell her nice fucking recon. The Delta boys are here and I have about 1 day before my cover's blown." She nodded and walked off towards where she was supposed to report and quickly lost sight of him. Well, shit, no wonder he was upset, his unit was here and there was no way they wouldn't recognize him. He still trained with them and deployed with them as a part of SHIELD. This whole thing was fucked.

 **Friday April 29** **th** **, 12:23 pm US Army Base Baghdad, Iraq**

Clint grabbed his gear and quickly found his bunk and stowed it. He then followed Sgt. Sneeden, who went by the nickname Beachhead, to the HQ building to check in with his CO. All of this was so familiar and yet so disconcerting. He could already feel himself slipping into the easy rhythm of "sir, yes, sir" and "you better unass yourself ASAP, soldier!" This had been his life for so many years it was like coming home and going back to hell all at the same time.

They stopped in front of the General's door and Beachhead excused himself. Clint was happy with his choice of Sergeants. Sneeden was Ranger and Airborne, just like him. He could have seen himself ended up like Beachhead, if he hadn't accepted the job in Delta Force. That job had then turned into a reassignment with SHIELD, which had then turned into his entire freakin' life to the point that he didn't even know what he would do with himself if he ever got time off, which he almost never did. It had also turned him into Agent Coulson's personal pet project, who forced him to go back to school, go through OSC, and make all the way to Major. Not bad for guy that chose the Army over 10 years in jail. Regardless he liked Beachhead. He had selected him because he had a strong background, was known for being honest if not well liked, and his Area of Operation was South America. It was highly unlikely to have any involvement with the leak. In fact, he was unlikely to even know anyone here. If Sneeden thought it was odd that he was pulled out of his normal unit and forced into Iraq to serve a Captain he had never met before, then he didn't say anything. He was a perfect staff sergeant.

He knocked and waited for the "enter" call before proceeding into the room and face to face with Major General Thomas and Colonel Jenkins. These two men and these two men alone, were supposed to know his full purpose here, though unless they wanted to start from scratch he was going to have to make up a fast story to tell his unit mates. This mission was fucked already. He never should have agreed to it.

He stood in front of them, at attention until they gave him leave to relax. Thomas was bald and sweaty, used to European commands; while Jenkins was silver haired and sharp eyed. Jenkins no doubt knew everything that went on around this base and then some. He would be the one Clint would rely on, not the General.

"So you made it here safely," Thomas trailed off, waiting for Clint to provide his real name. He wouldn't.

"Pierce, sir, you can call me Pierce," he supplied. These men weren't authorized to know his real identity. Sometimes he wondered why he protected it so much. He didn't have any family to watch out for (he didn't count Barney because even he didn't know where the lazy bastard was) and his name had no special meaning. Now it was more force of habit than anything.

"I see, Capt. Pierce. So where is your support located?" The General recovered quickly. He was craftier than he looked, which wasn't hard. Because, he really sort of looked like the Pillsbury doughboy in uniform.

"As you have been informed, there will be an undercover agent here on base and they will do the majority of the communication with SHIELD."

"But where is SHIELD?" He insisted.

"That's need to know, sir, and with all due respect, you don't need to know," and this was the part he was dreading. These people were superior officers and he had to shut them down and not get tossed into Leavenworth.

The man squinted up his eyes and glared at him, "Son, you do realize what these stars mean, don't you? It means I ask you a question and you answer, we clear?"

"Chrystal, sir. It doesn't change the fact that my orders come from higher up the food chain."

"And where did these orders that you can't tell me what's going on under my own nose come from?" he snapped.

"JSOC and Chairman of the Joint Chief of Staff, sir. You were given minimal mission details and everything else is on a need to know basis," he explained, leaning forward slightly to press an ultra thin and transparent bug under the overhang of the desk. In this espionage task, he was far better than Natasha. He had fast hands and nimble fingers trained by years of entertaining crowds with parlor prestidigitation. He was so good at it, that Tony swore he was a mutant because he could never replicate the tricks, even after Clint showed him how. Stark's hand were too slow and his fingers too stiff to perform complicated sleight of hand. He tended not to push the issue though, many people knew he had been a circus performer as an archer and an acrobat; but few other than Natasha and Coulson knew he had also been a magic performing clown and frankly he preferred it that way.

"And what makes you think we don't need to know who you are and where your backup is?" Jenkins finally chimed in, his eyes never leaving Barton's face. He was shrewd, cunning, and confident. He was the one in charge here, not Thomas.

"Because neither of you have been completely cleared of suspicion, sir. Once you are or I am compromised, you will be given more information. Until then, you are to share all of the intel you've gathered so far with me." If they wanted a pissing match, he'd give them one. Maybe it was a good thing they hadn't sent Gunnarson, he would have started blabbing by now.

"We don't have much to share," Jenkins finally relaxed, clearly either retreating to regroup or accepted Clint's assessment. "So far all we know is that across the boarder there have been multiple bombings that have involved IEDs that resemble Stark weapons. There haven't been any demands made and no one is claiming credit for them. It's almost like," he trailed off.

"Like they are testing to see if they will work?" Barton finished, exactly what he had been thinking.

"Yes, we've sent a few teams over and no one has uncovered anything. The last of them got back yesterday. They were led by Lt. Bodder, you can talk to him if you want."

"I will, sir, but I think I'll head over there tonight, see the situation first hand. If you can, hold the Delta boys back for a few days, let me get in and out." He offered.

"What makes you think The Unit's here?" Jenkins asked, his eyes again penetrating. Clint said nothing, just stared back. "Guess that explains why you don't have a name?" He again remained silent. "They don't answer to us, but I'll see what I can do. I can probably buy you 2 days."

"Thank you, sir," he rose, "I'll head out, when the sun goes down," he saluted and left.

He walked outside before he heard, "The bug is transmitting loud and clear, Hawkeye," Agent Hill seemed to shout at him through the mic implanted between two of his upper molars.

"Volume, Hill, turn down the volume," he said as he walked. He never had to remind Squawks of that, when he was wearing this type of extended wear com device. Especially since Coulson knew those two teeth were metal implants anyway. They had been knocked out in Afghanistan.

"Black Widow said you wanted to talk to me?" she questioned and he ignored her until he was in the shade of his barracks and assured he was alone.

"Yes, your recon is shit. You could have warned me my unit would be here. They are going to know something is up the second they recognize me." He complained.

"That is an acceptable risk," she answered back making him miss Coulson so much more. Hill wasn't a bad person, she was just a terrible Handler. Maybe he wasn't being fair though, maybe everyone would suck compared to Squawks. Phil had been his original handler since he had been assigned to SHIELD.

"An acceptable risk? It's acceptable that they may let slip what I am here to investigate and then we lose everything?"

"Give them a story they will believe. Most won't be bright enough to question you anyway." she haughtily replied and he was about to go off on her when he heard Tasha.

"We'll figure something out Hawkeye. When are you heading out?"

"I'm going to the mess right now, then I'll grab a chopper to get me within 15 miles of Damascus and hoof it the rest of the way. I'll be back in 2 or 3 days." He headed out into the sun to get some food. "And 'Tasha, don't forget to put on sunblock. You don't want to burn," he teased as they passed without meeting eyes. She was flushed and her pale skin already turning pink.

He entered the mess hall and grabbed a tray. The food would be bland but overly salted and mostly likely the texture of dog food but oh well. Food was food and he would need a good meal before he headed out. He sank down in the corner, alone and started eating as fast as possible, when he felt someone watching him. He looked around but couldn't find anyone that seemed over interested in him. What he did find was a table of D Unit boys talking amongst themselves and he knew that without a doubt someone had recognized him. He hadn't even gotten 24 hours. Fuck Hill and her "acceptable risks."

 **Friday April 29** **th** **, 7:02 pm Syrian Desert**

Clint sat in the Little Bird Chopper, one leg dangling out onto the skids and checking the straps holding his Makarov pistol to his thigh through the cargo pocket in his pants. It was far and away his favorite sidearm, not just because Natasha gave it to him but because she managed to find him a left-handed model. Even though he was functionally ambidextrous, he was still left hand dominant by nature and it had been such a thoughtful gift. He was dressed as a typical European press, complete with expensive camera and Doc Martins. His just happened to have knives in his. He ran through how he would check the bomb sites and track down anyone that might have seen anything when Beachhead's voice crackled over the headset.

"Sir, are you sure you don't want me to go with you?"

"No, don't worry about it, I work better on my own," he gave his sergeant a cheeky grin that made the other man glower. "Look, you know this unit was created to get a handle on the bombings in Syria, right? So I need to get the lay of the land before I feel comfortable risking American lives by interfering in another civil war," he explained. It was both true and false. He didn't want to needlessly risk lives but he also knew that if others were around, he couldn't ask the type of questions he needed to.

"Yes, sir," Beachhead answered, still obviously not convinced, but also not willing to piss off his new CO.

"Just keep an eye on the guys back at the base. Drill them until I don't have worry about anyone falling behind. Also see if you can find me a good bomb detection K-9 team," he finished as the Killer Egg dropped to 2 feet above the ground, throwing dust and sand around. He pulled off his headset and hopped out, pulling his favorite brightly colored shemagh over his mouth and nose to block out the sand kicking back from the rotors. All of this was done unconsciously, with the ease of long practice. Without additional fanfare, he took off at a comfortable lope towards the lights of Damascus. It would take him about 90 minutes to reach the edge of city at this pace, which would put him at well past sundown. Since it was Al-Gomaaa, most homes he would pass would be starting dinner or if he timed it right, he could show up during Maghrib and get an extra 15 minutes of quiet streets, if not, he could try and get lost in the shuffle.

Per his plan, he cruised into the outskirts as the men were heading for worship, he used them as cover to make his way further into the city proper. Once there he secured lodgings in a Westerner friendly hotel, and headed out to inspect the bomb sites. It was easy to avoid the plain clothes police, they weren't nearly as good as they thought they were. What was harder was avoiding the armed militants that seemed to be more numerous as he approached the most recent site.

He crouched down between a car and building and looked through his camera, which was retro fit with night vision and a telescopic lens. He could see a few mourners wandering aimlessly around the place and police trying to keep the area clear but there was a sense of hopelessness to their actions. This wasn't the first time a bomb had killed in their city and it wouldn't be the last time.

He photographed the debris pattern, the blast radius, and the angle of the ash signatures all of which could help tell him what type of IED had been used. He wished he could get closer but this place was too heavily guarded. He moved onto the next and the final recent bomb site, repeating the same types of photographs, including shots of the surrounding buildings. When one card filled up, he slipped it into a hidden pocket in his shirt and replaced it.

At the final site, he noticed some light wires sitting in the middle of what he assumed was the blast seat. They were buried in the debris and couldn't pass up examining them. He evaded the guards and managed to free what looked like part of a detonator, when a bright light was shined on him, immediately making him, sneeze and avert his eyes to the side. He quickly stood; weight evenly balanced on the balls of both feet, and pocketed the detonator. His hands then went up and his facing affected a frightened expression.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" the voice behind the light shouted at him in Arabic.

"Press, I'm a member of the press. A freelance photographer," he stuttered in German accented Arabic. He was actually very proud of the fact he could speak Arabic and Dari with both a French and German accent. It allowed him to play European, which won him more trust points than an American.

"This area is off limits," the policeman dropped his flashlight to accept Clint's forged, foreign press pass.

"I know, you can't blame a guy for trying though, can you?" he smiled nervously as he took back his card. He could see the tired cop wasn't going to do anything to him so he pushed his luck, "hey were you here when the bomb went off?"

"What type of story are you writing anyway?" he asked, as he finally dropped the light to point at their feet. In the better lighting, Clint could see there was very little structural damage, but massive scorch marks.

"I want to show people what's going on here. Everyone is so worried about which side is doing what, that people forget about the destruction of the landmarks and the human element. I figure if I'm going to get a Pulitzer, then the Middle East is the place to get it," he joked and could see the cop relax. Stupid fuck, he could kill him without even trying and no one would be the wiser.

"I was here, when it happened," he to walk away and Barton followed, snapping pictures of burn marks on the ground as he walked. Photographing in night vision would be a pain to interpret but it beat having a flash. "It was strange, we were standing here guarding the hotel as we always do and then there was a blast. It wasn't loud and the building didn't come down, but the people around it looked as if they had been caught on a fire. They were burning and screaming but throwing blankets on them did noting, neither did trying to wash it off with water. The entire place smelled like burning oil and gasoline," he looked off into the night. "I also heard that even those that didn't catch fire were taken to the hospital for headaches or disorientation."

Gasoline didn't make sense. This sounded like one of Stark's incendiary bombs that shot chemicals designed to dissolve organic matter but leave inorganic matter alone. They minimized the damage to buildings and lowered the cost of reconstruction. The bystanders showing neurological symptoms also matched Stark's bomb because the chemicals were designed to deoxygenate the air and flood it with Carbon Monoxide and Carbon Dioxide. But the chemicals in Stark's weapons smelled like acetone not gasoline. Gasoline meant petroleum and petroleum that was jellied and stuck to flesh meant a form of Napalm B. Fuck! He was going to have to sneak back here and see if he could get a sample.

"Wow, that's wild," he held his right hand out, not wanting to offend a member of the Southpaw hating culture. "Thanks for your help. We can only pray this gets better," he wondered off into the dark, waiting for his change to grab some scrapings. As he waited, he examined the portion of the detonator he found. It was rigged with triple wires, the same way the ones in Stark's towers were done.

It took him another 90 minutes before he could get his sample and make his way back to his hotel room. He immediately downloaded all his pictures and started to sift through them. Night vision photos would drive the techs nuts but didn't bother him. He was mostly color blind anyway. His "red wire, blue wire, yellow wire" trick with Tony had been a joke. He couldn't have told you the difference between red and green to save his life. Yellow and blue were only discernable by shade rather than hue. Natasha swore his colorblindness was why he always wore black, she wasn't completely wrong. He had been 15 before he found out Trickshot and his brother had dressed him up in a gay-ass purple costume for his shows.

It took some time, but one thing that did jump out to him, was that there was a high-end, Western style hotel very close by to all the bombings. So either they were trying to kill Westerners or they were putting on a show for them. He looked up all the 4 and 5 star locations in Damascus and was left with 3 possible targets.

By the time he had gone through all of possible scenarios he figured The Four Seasons Damascus was probably his best bet. It was also almost dawn and he was jet lagged and exhausted. He collapsed on the small bed, closing his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. His mind kept working, trying to find ways to disprove his theory that hotels were involved. Clint knew he was a lot of things but smart had never been a word he would use to describe himself. Coulson and Romanov were the brains, he was just the hired gun.

After 30 minutes of trying to relax, every little noise making his eyes pop open and his hand creep towards his gun, he gave up and took a shower. He hoped at least the warm water would relax the knots in his shoulders but no such luck. He gave up all pretenses of trying to unwind and bolted down an MRE, Asian beef strips, which were pretty nasty but oh well; food was food. Clint has learned to eat pretty much anything over the years and this was nothing. The only thing he flatly refused to eat was lemon flavored SHIELD issued electrolyte replacement gel. They were so awful, even the smell of it made him gag but to be fair that was probably more a Conditioned Taste Aversion after Afghanistan, rather than them actually tasting that bad. No, he decided they really did just taste that bad.

He headed out as soon as the sun rose and the Adhan started to play across the city. For the next two days, he concentrated his time between watching the Four Seasons and trying to track down witnesses to the other bombings. Witnesses were tough to come by but he was pretty sure that of the five bombings he was interested in, one had nothing to do with Stark's weapons and may have been an accident. Of the remaining four, 3 were near Western hotels and the fourth was at the outskirts of the city, nearly in the desert. From the descriptions, he found the in addition to the chemical incendiary bomb, there was an electrified shrapnel bomb (one of Stark's finest), and the other two looked like failed shockwave bombs (designed to focus the concussive force laterally without wasting it upward). He was sadly, unable to find any pieces of the detonators, as the electric dirty bomb and the shockwave bomb would have immolated them.

On the third day, 8 hours before his rendezvous with Beachhead, he was sitting in a café across from the Four Seasons, watching people walk around him. Many were loose and casual but many were starting to take on the wary, shifting gaze of a war torn populous. Too many people had cell phones, brief cases, tablets, and small electronics that could be retrofit as remote detonators. Even with his back against a wall, drinking tea, he felt exposed and jumpy. He never liked being in these open air plazas, there were just too many places death could come from. At least he never liked being on the ground. In a bird's nest, these things were a sniper's playground. Because of that, he wasn't too proud to admit he was more than slightly agoraphobic, though he had never had a panic attack, thank you very much. His was more a fear of lack of cover than leaving his lodgings.

His eyes scanned the fountain area in front of him, catching a flashing colored light. Before conscious thought kicked in, he had already dove for the ground behind the half wall separating the café from the square, his hands over his ears and his body curled to protect his chest and stomach. Therefore, when the blast went off, shooting shrapnel across the area, he was protected from harm. Others were not so lucky. In the aftermath of the explosion, he heard screams and shouts. He looked out as the dust settled and saw a boy not more than 3, sitting beside what Clint guessed was his mother. He stared at her, tugging on her sleeve to get her attention, though the woman was clearly dead. The child touched the woman's bleeding head, part of her skull was missing, and left bloody, starfish, hand prints on the shoulder of the woman's white blouse.

More than anything, he wanted to run and pick up the little boy, because he was still in the middle of the kill box if there was another blast, and because no child should have to see their parents killed like that. Whether you loved them or hated them, seeing your parents die in front of you wasn't something you ever really got over, he could attest to that personally. But he did nothing, the mission trumped his desire to help one little boy. He was a photographer, not a soldier, so he had to act like a scared civilian, not a hero. He was memorized, though, watching the child's increasing hysterics as his mother remained still. Clint wondered if the boy understood what death meant or if he was too young. Would he even remember the woman's face or laugh later in life or would he forget this entire thing?

He shook his head and moved his eyes to the blast seat and began to take pictures. Bart of the bomb casing was still there, meaning the explosive force was low but the fragmentation was high. This was a Stark design. He wouldn't be able to get the shell but he could get pictures. So he ignored the kid and started to snap pictures of the casing, the shell, the edge of the electronics sticking out, and the surrounding building. He concentrated his pictures of the buildings on the hotels upper stories, just in case his hunch was right and these were demos for buyers. He didn't have much time though, he needed to get out of here before the police showed up. He couldn't be held or questioned given that he had been found snooping around at another bomb site.

He bugged out as soon as the cops started showing up, stopping to take one last look at the little boy. He wondered if he had a living father or if he was now an orphan? Would he be safe or would his life be a miserable string of Government run institutions? Would anyone hold him when he cried? Would he even still be able to cry after today? None of it mattered though, he pulled up his shemagh and ducked towards the outskirts of the city. He could hide out somewhere for a few hours before he met Beachhead.

 **Tuesday May 3** **rd** **9:52 pm US Army Base Baghdad Iraq**

Clint looked over the base, finally starting to relax slightly as he waited for Tasha to meet him. He had chosen the top of the command building roof as their communication point because it was a bitch to get to and very few people would be able to make the climb, plus it was in the blind spot of 6 of the 8 gun towers. He was early though, she wasn't supposed to meet him till 11 but he had decided to sit for a while and clear his head. It didn't stop him from hearing the sounds of another person breathing, letting him know he was no longer alone.

Before he whipped around, he heard a terribly, fake Australian accent start, "tonight on our nature program, the most dangerous ambush predator in the Middle East, the Hawk in his nest. He's been known to hide up high for days at a time waiting for the perfect moment to strike, frequently making kills from nearly 2000 meters away," the voice finally stopped and he immediately recognized First Sergeant Julian "Gator" Singer, one of the Squad leaders of the Delta Unit stationed here.

"We'll also be examining the white trash Gata'," he answered with a flawless Strine, more Melbourne than Queensland but who was counting, "known for consuming its own body weight in beer and gumbo weekly and snapping the head off of anyone that gets too near after consuming that much liquor. His mortal enemies are ties, culture, or anything where he can't take his gun," he finished.

"Born on the bayou and, proud of it, brother," he smiled, dimples showing in his tanned face as he switched back to his normal Southern Louisiana drawl. He clapped his unit mate on the back, ignoring rank and status. Foolish things like Major vs. Sergeant didn't matter to men like them. "So I've been waiting to see you disappear so I could come up here and talk to you," he looked out, his dark eyes scanning the same way Clint's had.

"And why did you think I would come up here?" Barton asked, nervous at the idea of lying to a man that helped train him when he first joined Delta force. They had fought together longer than he had even known any of the Avengers. He would call Gator a friend and say he trusted him in battle, even if he had never made it past Clint's emotional defenses.

Gator gave him a 'seriously?' look then answered him, "Brother, I have known you since you were barely old enough to drink. And one thing about you that never changes, is that you find the highest place you can, to hang out away from everyone. And since the highest places around here are gun towers, which would be occupied, negating the 'away from everybody' part, you had to find somewhere else, this being the next highest building with the added benefit of only being in line of site for 2 towers," he smirked. God damn it, he just knew Clint too well. "What I'm more interested in knowing is why exactly Hawkeye is here in Bagdad with another man's name tag? Did SHIELD get tired of their pet raptor?" He stared him in the eyes, as he asked.

"You know I can't tell you that," he answered, hating that he had to stonewall a man that had saved his miserable life more than once. Even when he hadn't wanted it to be saved. Oh he had returned the favor just as many times but still. It was hard. Gator was the closest thing he had to a friend before he met Coulson. The difference was that Singer had never managed to get Clint to confide in him. In Gator's defense though, it had taken massive amounts of emotional and psychological manipulation in addition to Squawks's stubbornness to get him to open up. Gator just hadn't had the logistics behind him to help him circumnavigate Barton's neurotically, phobic avoidance of attachment.

"Can't tell who what? Who are you talking to, Hawkeye?" Hill screeched at him, almost making him wince. He ignored her, though. Tasha could fill her in later.

"No, I don't suppose you can," he looked back out over the base. No doubt feeling the same why Clint did. The Government had made them both into soldiers and then killers but never told them how to turn it off, never told them how to go back to being normal. You stayed in until you died or they kicked you out. Gator was nearly 35 at which point he would be too old to be active duty Delta. There was a part of him that felt more at home among the guns, steel, and ranks than he ever had at Stark's tower. Even has he hated himself for thinking it. He could feel himself slipping back into that cool, numb state he had lived in for so long and it scared the shit out of him. Especially because there was no Phil to drag him back out.

There was a pause before Gator continued, "if I had to lay money on it, my bet would be that you were here because of what's happening in Syria. DOD doesn't want to get involved but SHIELD doesn't answer to DOD so they can send in their rent-a-soldier to see what's what." His guess wasn't far off the mark. The only wrong assumption was that he was concerned with Syria in general rather than just the bombings with pseudo Stark Weapons. Deep down it made sick that he was supposed to look the other way while a civil war killed thousands just get back some stolen intellectual property and save one man's life. But, he had his orders and he would fulfill his mission.

"I can neither confirm nor deny your assumptions, Gator," he answered, letting the other man think he was right. It was a good enough cover story. "What I can do, is ask that you keep my secret to yourself. Not even the COs know the whole of why I'm here."

"Don't worry, Hawkeye, I won't say a thing. I'll let Taps, Dawson, and Cruz know. They saw you too, but none of them were brave enough to come up here," he smiled and Clint couldn't help the edges of his mouth from curving up as well at the mention of some of the other Delta boys he knew. His arrangement with SHIELD was strange. He still technically worked for the US Army Special Forces but he spent most of his time under Fury. To confuse matters SHIELD would randomly be sent out with Delta Force for specific missions that overlapped with SHEILD. It made testing loyalties difficult but among the Unit D boys your trust never wavered. He never had an issue trusted people during a fight; it was trusting them with anything personal that sent him running for the hills.

"Thanks. My handler's recon fucking sucked balls for this mission. They never should have sent me if they knew you guys would be here." He felt zero guilt at insulting Hill. She was really starting to piss him off.

"No problem, so you still banging that hot redhead?" he asked out of nowhere.

"Excuse me?" Clint squeaked, not even remotely prepared for that question.

"You know, that Black Widow chick. Red hair, green eyes, awesome ass, and showed up with you dressed as Lt. Tokarev?" Gator continued.

"I know who you are talking about but what makes you think I'm sleeping with her, she's my partner?" great, now Tasha had been made too.

"Because either you're gay or you're having sex with her because I honestly don't believe you could have worked with her for so long unless one of those options was true."

"Those are not the only two options," he corrected.

"You're sleeping with her," his friend smiled, sure in his assessment that was sadly true. Clint slumped his shoulders in defeat, there was no point arguing. "Don't look so down, brother, she's hot, come on she has a great rack. Bet you stick your face between those tits and motorboat the shit out of them," he teased.

"You kiss your daughter with that mouth?" he asked, hoping to get the man to shut up. Thank GOD, Tasha couldn't hear him.

"I see you're still just as much of a prude as usual," Gator joked, making Clint grind his teeth.

"I'm not a prude. I just happen to think of women as people, not objects," he defended. It was an old argument. Too many years watching his mother be beaten or the female acrobats sell their bodies made him a bit sensitive about mistreatment of women.

"They can be both. If I didn't know better I would swear you had 8 sisters that used to beat the shit out of you as a kid," he started, and then stopped, trying to gage Barton's reaction. Clint had never told the man anything about his past or his family. Phil was the first person he ever opened up to about that. "But I don't know any better do I?"

"I told you, I ran away and joined the circus, when I was a kid," he smiled, knowing that Gator thought it was a joke. It was so outlandish, no one ever believed him, even if it was the truth.

"Yeah, yeah, speaking of my daughter, your god daughter, I might add," he pulled out his wallet and produced a picture of a smiling 9 year old. She had her father's dark hair and dimples. "You ever plan on coming to visit her any time soon?"

Clint handed the picture back, "wow she got big," he responded as he thought of Evelyn "Evie" Singer back in Slidell, LA with her mother. She had been borne when they had been in Iraq and Barton had saved Gator's life and Gator had asked him to be Evie's godfather. He hadn't wanted to agree but he could tell that it would cause hard feelings if he didn't. So he had and whether he wanted to admit it or not, the little tadpole had grown on him. He hadn't seen her in almost 2 years though. SHIELD had kept him far too busy. He did send her a card on her birthday every year.

"Yeah, she really has, hasn't she," the smile his friend had when he looked at his daughter was soft and loving. "She's my angel," he had finally finished when he looked up. "Anyway, brother, it's chow time so I'll leave you alone, which is how you always prefer to be anyway. If you need anything or your team mates can help, you let me know and it's yours," he held his fist out and Clint bumped his own into it.

"Thanks, man." He watched his former partner disappear over the edge just as he heard his current partner in his ear.

"Is he gone?"

"Yeah, you're clear." He saw her less than a minute later, as she swung over the ledge to stand beside him.

She looked him up and down for a second then flopped down with her feet hanging over the edge and started fanning herself. "How can you stand this heat?" she asked him, sounding equally dramatic and miserable. It wasn't even that hot anymore.

"You get used to it," he answered as he sank down beside her, finally relaxing for the first time in days.

"Maybe you get used it. I might melt and die," she huffed and fell backwards till she was laying down with her feet dangling over the edge. "Not to mention these pants are uncomfortable and I think they make my ass look big," she groused as she undid her hair.

He felt his lips curl up and let them, reaching over to move her hair off her sweaty face. "That's 'cause yours are new. You can take paint off of a car with new ACUs." She reached out to feel his, no doubt noticing that his were must softer from wear and washings. "And yeah, they do make your ass look big, which is awesome, I might add." She weakly swatted at him but he could see the sparkle in her eyes at his joke. She knew he liked his women curvy. Tony could keep his skinny models; Clint liked women than looked like women.

"Sit rep, you two," Hill nearly shouted and he barely suppressed another flinch.

"For the love of god, women, turn down the volume," Natasha snapped. He was glad to see he wasn't being over sensitive.

"Was that Gator, you were talking to?" she asked, staring at the sky. The one nice thing about the desert was the clear, clear sky.

"Yeah, he made me and you even faster than I thought he would," he collapsed backwards too, watching the stars twinkle. He shoved the SIM cards from his camera into her pocket along with a USB, which contained his comments and full report. She would get it to Hill.

"Is it going to be a problem," Natasha questioned, her hand working its way into his.

He ran his thumb over her knuckles, "no, he thinks I'm here to investigate moving into Syria. He has no idea about the Stark weapons."

"So what did you find?" she gave his hand an encouraging squeeze.

He gave them a detailed run down of what he had found. About the bombing, the hotels, and the dead ends but that he was sure it was the same designer that created the bomb in the tower. The triple rigged switches were too unusual to be just anyone. And that it was based on a Stark Weapon He left out the part about the little boy. That he would tell Tasha about later, when no one else could hear.

"I see," it was Fury's voice over the frequency. Neither of them bothered to straighten up. It wasn't like he could see them. "Good work, Hawkeye. You'll be taking your troops into Syria on Friday. You'll rotate for 2 weeks in and 3 days out until we find these bastards," he instructed.

"Yes, sir," he responded without thinking. His mind was too busy spinning through all the things he would have to get done in the next 3 days. Hopefully he could get some sleep tonight.

"How are you guys holding up?" Asked the unexpected voice of Steve Rogers.

"Fine, Cap," he answered and Natasha answered, "sweaty."

"You two take care of yourselves. Tony and I will be heading back stateside on Wed so we won't be close by if you need anything," Steve was too damn nice for his own good and so ridiculously uninformed about how modern warfare worked. Once they crossed the border, by the time they sent a call for help, it would be too late. He liked Rogers but at the same time Steve made him feel awful about himself. Rogers had fought in WW II and yet was still the nicest, most human person you ever wanted to meet. Somehow he had never lost himself in the carnage and the killing the way Clint had. It made Barton wonder why Steve was so much stronger than him. Why he was so much better and why couldn't Clint stop the numb, icy feeling creeping around the corners; when it never seemed to even touch Rogers.

"We will, Cap, don't worry. This isn't my first trip to Rodeo. I know my way around Baghdad better than New York," he joked and was rewarded with Steve's quiet chuckle. There was no reason for anyone to know how worried he was, except Tasha and he didn't have to tell her. She just knew.

"Well make sure to take care of Romanov, because I don't think she does," he threw in and Tasha pulled a sour face.

"She can take care of herself," he said flatly, believing it with every fiber of his being.

The line was quiet for a bit and he and Natasha took comfort in each other's presence. "I have some possible patterns on the bombings worked out," she started after a bit, startling him from his stupor. Having her around made him feel safe enough to get groggy. "I'll leave them in your foot locker tomorrow while you're at breakfast."

"K," he grunted, wanting to close his eyes and sleep. He realized there was something vaguely wrong with being beside a woman as beautiful as Natasha Romanov and thinking about sleeping, but she had been his partner before his lover and he was really tired.

He felt rather than saw her tuck her arm behind her head, "are you ok with letting Gator and your squad mates believe a lie?" she asked him.

"I don't really have a choice," he let his eyes unfocus and watched the stars above him go double and blur.

"I guess you don't," she returned philosophically, "but I know you two were close, at least as close as you let anyone get to you."

"It's fine. He'll understand the need for mission security and I'll make it up to him once this is done," he finally gave in and let his eyes drift shut.

"He does know you pretty well, and he was right about one thing," she started and he concentrated on staying awake enough to hear her out. Sleeping on this roof seemed like a very good idea.

"Yeah, what's that?" he mumbled.

"You are prudish," she teased him, lightly kicking her foot into his.

He cracked his eyes open, "excuse me? Just because I'm not a complete whore or a sexual deviant does not mean I am a prude," he defended. She was trying to cheer him up and he would have kissed her for it if he had the energy to move.

"I still remember that time I took you to an S&M club for that one mission. You were red as a beat," she giggled.

"From trying not to laugh, not from blushing. I found it funny that every other time I had been trussed up like that I was being tortured, not receiving sexual gratification," he taunted right back.

"Yeah, I guess I shouldn't rag on you too much, compared to Rogers. He probably thinks missionary position is the height of kink."

"Isn't he like a 94 year old virgin or something?" he asked, feeling the tension between his shoulder blades finally releasing. She alone could have that effect on him.

"Yeah, he might blush so hard he passed out, if he ever saw some of the freaky gymnastics shit we do."

"You do know he can still hear us, right?" Clint figured he should ask, though he guessed she didn't care. She just shrugged at him and pulled his hand onto her stomach. Her shirt was damp with sweat. He let his eyes lids sag shut again and listened to her breathe.

Just as the sounds of the camp below them started to fade away into sleep, he heard her voice, "come on, soldier, we can't let you sleep up here," she tugged on his hand to get his attention. He wanted to whine like a child that didn't want to get up for school but he didn't. He sat up, slid down the opposite side of the building from her, and trudged back to his bunk. But by the time he got there, his mind was had starting spiraling through plans and his eyes scanning around the camp. Sleep didn't come that night, again.

 

****Tuesday May 3**   **rd**   **11:58 pm** Masbah Plaza Hotel, Baghdad, Iraq**

Tony swirled the ice cubes around his drink as he looked out of the penthouse window of his suite. The mirth over the two agents' digs at Steve had faded and he again felt the fear and maudlin mood resurface. He hadn't thought being here would be as hard as it was. Strangely, not having Barton dogging his steps and planning out the every twist and turn of his day from where he ate to which car he took was making him jumpy. Clint was nothing if not thorough.

"They sound OK," Rogers said from behind him. He nodded and took a drink. They sounded better than he felt. He had barely been able to eat or sleep since he had gotten here and it was starting to wear on him. Every window seemed like a sniper nest and every car seemed like it was going to explode. How the hell the troops lived like this every day was beyond him. Lack of other options was his only guess.

He swallowed a gulp of scotch hoping the buzz would hit soon. He wanted to go home and he wanted to take Natasha and Hawkeye with him. Tony's family life had been strange and cold but he knew what family was and he wasn't too proud to admit that the Avengers were becoming his new family. Steve was an annoying older brother that kept telling him what to do. Bruce was the younger brother that was pampered for obvious reasons. Natasha was the sister and Barton was her boyfriend. He felt his lips quirk up at that thought. Both of them would kick his ass for that comment. Actually she would threaten and he would roll his eyes and not say anything.

He had been trying to befriend the man for over a two months now and few things had changed. Clint was still distant but no longer unfriendly. He suspected that having to go on a long term mission to save Stark money wasn't going to help Tony's plight. He sagged in his chair because he had just reminded himself that this entire thing was his fault. Natasha wouldn't be hot, sweaty, and uncomfortable and Barton wouldn't be exhausted and about to go into combat if not for Tony's weapons. His ideas, his plans, his designs were killing and the thought made him nauseous. He wasn't like the SHIELD agents, he couldn't just shake off being responsible for death. He thought being an Avenger would help and it did in the day, when he was being praised by the world but at night, when he was alone or beside a sleeping Pepper, her remembered the death toll that was on him.

TBC


	5. Take Cover

**Into the Fire Chapter 4: Take Cover**

**Wednesday June 13th** **10:35 pm – Stark Tower New York City, USA**

Steve pushed his way into Tony's favorite lab, almost being muscled out of the way by pissed off Agent Morse, as she groused and shoved past him. Gunnarson hadn't even bothered to move from the couch, where he was watching some stupid action movie that didn't seem to have a plot. Only Bruce and Lt. Colonel Rhoades were in there with him. Steve immediately tried to ignore the billionaire's whining, as he entered. He didn't have to get very close to see that Stark was completely drunk and trying to make Rhodey eat coconut cake. Again with the coconut cake! Tony had been obsessed with coconut cake for the last 6 weeks. Ever since Clint had made it for Bruce's birthday, 2 days before he left. The agent had spent the entire afternoon in the kitchen with his guns dissembled and spread out for cleaning on the table and the makings for the best fajitas Steve had ever eaten working on the counter. He had also asked Betty what Bruce's favorite dessert was and had made a coconut cake from scratch for his fellow Avenger. He wasn't going to lie, it had been delicious. But since then, Tony had been on an insane quest to find a coconut cake that tasted as good as the one Barton made.

That wasn't the only thing that had been off the last month and a half. The Avengers as a fighting force had become less effective without the pair of agents. Steve had never realized how often he relied on Natasha to watch his back for him as he shouted commands or to be able to shimmy and squeeze into places no adult man could reach. Without her there was no one to subtly weave in and out of the enemies ranks, silently taking out the leader. Barton was just as sorely missed for his eagle eyes and almost inhuman ability to calculate trajectories and patterns. Everyone had grown too used to hearing Hawkeye's calm voice saying something like, "their moving left and fanning out to catch you in a pincer, Cap, better have Iron Man thin them out." Or being able to say, "Hawkeye, I could use some help," and by the time you were finished with the sentence, there would be an arrow or a high caliber round sticking out of whatever was plaguing you.

They had tried fighting without anyone to fill those gaps and it had been an abysmal failure. Cap had gotten hurt twice with no one to guard his back. Tony had nearly been killed with no one to clear the way for him, and the Hulk had run amuck. It had been so bad they had had to call in Thor for help. He was good at fighting but he was like another Tony, all brawn and no finesse. Not to mention he was very easily distracted by things and often went off plan.

With his suit, Tony could see as well as Barton, but he didn't have the patience or the tactical, military knowledge to be able to anticipate an enemies moves. He never realized before how important it was to have another military officer on the team. It never occurred to him how often Hawkeye took over command when Cap was busy or couldn't see what was going on. He was so nonchalant about the whole thing, he had never registered it. Without that, there had been gaps in their plans that had caused major issues.

But worst of all had been the Hulk. One would not think the loss of "Pretty Lady" or "Magic Man" (so named for his penchant for entertaining the green titan with juggling, card tricks, and sleight of hand) would make that much of a difference but it had. Hulk had more than once taken off trying to find Natasha because he thought she was lost or in danger. That had been bad enough but he had been uncontrollable without Barton around. Clint carried a specially made adimantium tipped arrow with enough tranquilizers to drop the Hulk in 5 seconds flat. He had only had to use them twice, which one would think would make Bruce's alter ego not like him but it was the opposite. The Other Guy was destructively unhappy not having Hawkeye around as a safety net for him. Bruce suspected the Hulk was just reacting to his own feelings but no one was sure. What they were sure of, was that the Hulk had caused more damage in the last six weeks than the prior 6 months.

Obviously, Fury had noticed and between him and the SHIELD director, they had decided to bring in two other Agents to fill Romanov and Barton's shoes. For Natasha, they had sent Agent Bobbi "Mockingbird" Morse, a perky blonde that could talk geek to her heart's content with Stark and could fight fairly well. She however wasn't as good as Romanov and lacked the other SHIELD agent's independent, manipulative mind and thick skin. She seemed to dislike her predecessor with a flaming passion. In fact, she had pointed out that she had a scar under her chin where Natasha had almost slit her throat, if not for Clint's intervention; apparently, just because she had asked Barton out for a drink. However, she held Clint in freakishly, stalker like, high esteem, causing Tony to postulate that the two of them must have had a fling at one time; since she had been at SHIELD longer than either of the other two. Which then always led to commentary about, "how in the hell Barton managed to bag such beautiful women considering he had a face like a catcher's mitt and the personality of a police dog." She was frequently annoyed to the point of tears by Tony and was clearly afraid of Banner. She was a solid B but not an A+ like Black Widow. Her only saving grace was that she tended to wound rather than kill.

Then there was the other one, John "Gun" Gunnarson, from Boston, MA. He was another soldier, a Navy SEAL rather than Army Delta Force, sent to replace Clint. He was very tall, blond as blond could be, and about as smart as a box of rocks. When asked about the agent he was replacing, his comment was a tap to his chest and, "I have much love for the Hawk, he's saved my bacon more than once. And his partner is wicked hot, not that I would go for her because she's like all kinds of crazy but hot." Steve couldn't generally fault his skill because he was a first rate marksman, even though he had missed and shot Steve in the shoulder. He was nice enough, in fact he was much more personable than Barton. He talked, laughed, wanted to hangout and go to the movies, he really liked movies, and generally seemed like a good person; even if he did think things like exploding eyeballs were 'cool'. His biggest down side was that he was just so damn stupid. He could hug a roof and shoot targets almost as well as Barton but forget finding patterns or taking command. This guy was a grunt, not a leader. These were the two agents Romanov and Barton had suggested instead of them to go to Syria. He had to agree with Hill, Gunnarson was not smart enough to fool anyone.

Even with the two replacements and Thor, they were still not as affective so Tony had suggested they ask his friend Air Force Lt. Colonel James Rhodes, call sign War Machine, for assistance. Rhodes had agreed, which had helped quite a bit. He had filled the gap in helping Cap decide the tactics. Sadly, it also seemed to have given Tony license to fall apart even more than he had been. Stark had been in a bad way since they had gotten back from Iraq, though if he were honest with himself, even before they had returned. He was drinking to the point of passing out almost every night. He was taking stupid risks in battle and he was pushing away his team mates and friends with cruel, cutting words. He had cheated on Pepper, which explained why she was in Malibu and he was here. Even Bruce was almost at his limits with the man and had snapped at him yesterday, "to get on some fucking meds!" whatever that meant. Tony's mental breakdown, being the reason Jarvis has asked for him to come down to the lab.

"Tony, I'm not hungry and if you shove that spoon in my face one more time I'm going break your fingers," Rhodes spoke calmly, breathing through his nose.

"Come on Rhodey try it," Stark then pouted, "it isn't the same. None of them are the same." He reached for his bottle of whiskey and Steve snatched it away from him.

"I think you've had enough for tonight, Tony," he said kindly.

"Captain, you wanna try some coconut cake, it sucks," she smiled and grabbed a handful of cake and shoved it towards Steve.

"No, thanks, I'm good. But I think you need to hit the hay."

"No, I want cake, I want good coconut cake. Why can't anybody make it right?" he slouched, and then popped back up, "maybe we should fly to South Carolina to find some. Jarvis, get the Mark VII ready."

"Belay that order Jarvis," Rhodey called. "Tony, for once in your miserable life, do what you are told. Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up!" Tony stared at him for a minute then slumped against his friend.

"It's not the same, Rhodey, why can't anyone make it the same?" he mumbled as Rhodes got him up and led him over to the couch in hopes he would fall asleep.

"I know, man, I know." He leaned over his friend, pulling a blanket over the drunk. "But try to pull yourself together, they'll be home soon." Tony was snoring by the time Rhodes turned around to face the two men.

"Is he going to be alright?" Steve asked, getting really tired of Stark's childish behavior. They all missed Romanov and Barton. He hadn't had anyone to run with, train with, or talk over tactics with since Hawkeye had left. Not to mention they were all getting sick of take out or Bruce's badly made stir fry.

"He'll have one hell of a hangover tomorrow but he'll be fine," Rhodes answered, reaching out and taking the bottle of expensive whiskey from Steve. "If you'll, excuse me Captain Rogers, now I need a drink."

Steve watched him leave and turned to Bruce who looked just as helpless as he felt. Banner straightened up a few things on Tony's work table and picked up the cake, heading towards the door, but not before he moved a trashcan and a bottle of water beside his friend. Steve took one look back and followed the doctor. Bruce led him to the communications room, apparently also remembering that Steve was supposed to talk to Natasha tonight. He settled down and started eating the cake.

"Want some, it actually isn't bad at all," he offered and Cap shook his head no. He had to agree with Tony, none of them had tasted the same as Barton's. "I'm not sure what all the fuss was about Hawkeye's cake was? It was good but it didn't really taste like a coconut cake at least not a traditional one," he said between mouth fulls. "Normal ones have cream frosting like this, not that chantilly frosting he used."

"Yeah, Tony does seem pretty obsesses with that cake," Steve answered, noticing that Romanov should be contacting him any minute to give him a report. It wasn't strictly necessary, this mission only peripherally involved the Avengers but he was worried about his friends and wanted to check up on them. Apparently Banner felt the same way.

"I know why Tony is focused on the idea of the cake but not the flavor. If he wanted to get obsessed over one of Barton's dishes, his homemade French Dip sandwiches would be a better choice. I would kill and or die for one of those," Steve snorted at him, but didn't disagree. Clint was one hell of a cook and house keeper now that he thought of it. He was getting tired of their being dishes in the sink and dust on things without Hawkeye there to compulsively clean everything. The guy was a bit of a neat freak. "You think that is part of the reason Natasha likes him so much, because he's a good, little wife?" Bruce joked, almost as if he could read Steve's mind.

"I don't know, but you may have a point," he smiled at his fellow Avenger, just has Natasha finally buzzed in. "Hi Black Widow, I've got Banner here with me," he told her.

"Hi Steve, hi Bruce," she answered back. Steve wondered where she went on an Army base to get enough privacy to speak so freely but he didn't bother asking. "So how are things going there?"

"Not bad, Tony is still freaking out about coconut cake, and I think he might have a mild case of alcohol poisoning. Oh and SHIELD gave us some replacement agents, a Gunnarson and a Morse," Bruce answered her, finally discarding the rest of the cake.

"Good luck with all that," she sniped. "Gunnarson's nickname is 'SS,' which he thinks means 'Super Swede' but it really stands for 'Stupid Swede.' And Morse, is a dim-witted cunt that is only alive because she's has luck on her side," she practically growled at the end. He looked at Bruce, surprised at the venom in Natasha's voice. 'Hell hath no fury,' Banner mouthed and smiled. Maybe Tony was onto something about Barton and Morse having a thing.

"How are you guys holding up?" Roger's asked. It had been 2 weeks since he had last spoken with her and he had only seen the official reports of battles and terrorist rings Barton and his team had broken up.

"I'm still miserably hot, hate the Army, and would kill for some quality vodka. Clint's not back yet. He gets back in tomorrow. I hope he has good news," she trailed off.

"We all do, Natasha, we want you guys home, safe and sound." Rogers told.

"Yeah, and besides we're all starving because Barton isn't here to cook and we're wallowing in our own filth because he hasn't clean the kitchen," Banner joked and was rewarded with her laughter.

"He is quite the domestic," she teased.

"We figure that must be why you like him so much. He convinced you to join SHIELD with a lasagna, tiramisu, and neatly pressed socks." Banner continued.

"Clearly."

"How did he convince you to join then?" Steve asked. He had always been curious on why she had defected on Barton's say so.

"You seriously have never heard this story?" she asked, sounding vaguely shocked.

"No," they both answered and Rogers started eating cake as he listened to her.

"I had decided to leave Red Room and was chased to the Airport in Kiev. I had bought a ticket to Berlin but stole a ticket to Dubai off a business man. When I landed, I checked into a hotel and didn't feel anything out of the ordinary. The only person that even looked at me was a French father, talking to his wife and playing with his kids in the lobby, at least I thought it was a French guy with his wife and kids. Turned out it was Barton chatting with a total stranger to throw me off. He was smart and kept his hands in his pockets. I would have been able to ID him as an assassin in a heartbeat, if I had seen his hands.

"Anyway that night I was in my room and two Red Room agents had tracked me and attacked. I went to fight back but before I could, they both dropped, their heads blown open with a high caliber rifle using ceramic shells designed to be armor piercing. They were nasty things, they fragment and can't be seen in an x-ray or MRI. They almost assure a kill, even with only a gut or chest wound. Of course these two had been popped right through the brainstem, insta-kills.

"What I thought was odd, was that there were two shots fired but only one hole in the glass. Whoever made those shots was beyond good. I ducked and heard my burner cell phone ring and answered it. I heard someone whistle at me like a dog and say, 'I see you Black Widow.' I of course freaked out and dropped behind the couch and he said, 'you really think a couch is enough to stop a 50 cal?" I asked him what he wanted and he said, "follow the yellow brick road," and shined a laser pointer letting me know his location. It was a roof top three quarters of a mile away.

"I grabbed my gun and took off towards him, assuming I would kill him and be gone. I figured out pretty quick it had to be Hawkeye, the marksmanship and the ceramic coated, high caliber rifle rounds were a dead giveaway, even without his bow. All of Red Room's intel on him just talked about him as a long range killer so I figured I would break his neck and be done with it. Turned out the intel was wrong and he put up one hell of a fight. I tried to seduce him, he laughed at me. The whole time he kept telling me he could get me out. He could give me someplace safe," she paused. "I don't know, something about him just made me believe he could do it," Steve could hear the smile in her voice. "Even if on the way back to the SHIELD base he freaked out because he was afraid Coulson would Court Martial or murder him because he had never disobeyed a direct order before.

"It's odd, when I think about it. I randomly picked one guy in that whole airport to steal a ticket from and ended up in Dubai. If it had been Bangkok, I would have faced Lee; Paris would have been Gunnarson' Sydney would have been Brandt. But I ended up with the one Agent that looked past the dossier and saw a person and the one handler that respected his operator enough to trust his judgment," she paused again. "Anyway, we went back, became partners and I spent the next 9 months in the Friend Zone trying to get in his pants," she laughed.

"That makes more sense then," Bruce cut in.

"What makes more sense?" she asked.

"Why you fell for him. Come on, let's face it. Tony has a point that Barton is neither particularly handsome, intelligent, or charming. He is at best average in every way except his physical prowess for killing, his eye sight, and ability to compartmentalize. Yet one of the most beautiful women on Earth is completely smitten with him. But what you just said puts it all in perspective." Banner commented and winked at him. Bruce was purposely baiting her to get her for some reason.

"Why does knowing that he tried to kill me make us more understandable, exactly?"

"Not that he tried to kill you, though that really shouldn't surprise me, but that he tricked you into falling for him. Think about it, whether consciously or unconsciously, he did the one thing that no one else had ever done with you, he said 'no'. He made you work to get him in bed, and you had never had to do that before. He made you get to know him as a friend and a person and a partner before you knew him as a lover. It's actually genius, which leads me to believe he didn't do it on purpose," Bruce finished and Steve was stunned at the rather clinical dissection of his friends' relationship.

"It wasn't that cut and dry, he was sleeping with someone else at the time and Clint is nothing if not loyal," she defended herself.

"Was it Morse?" Banner asked, eyes twinkling.

"Yes, it was, actually. That stupid bitch thought he cared about her but she was never anything more than a fuck for him. He wouldn't even let her in his room much less in his bed," she crowed and Bruce winked, clearly having reached his goal of finding out if Mockingbird and Barton used to date. He was just as nosey as Tony, just more subtle about getting his answers.

"I see," Steve reeled them back in. "Well, if you can call us after Hawkeye gets back in and let us know how he is doing, ok?"

"Sure, Capt, I will. You guys take care," she signed off and Steve turned around to look at a very satisfied doctor.

"What? Tony was going to keep annoying the crap out of Bobbi until he found out. This way I can confirm it for him and he can move on before she bashes his skull in or worse he cracks a joke about it in front of Natasha," he explained and Steve couldn't argue. He didn't remember the Howling Commandos being this high maintenance.

**Thursday June 14th** **5:35 am Desert outside of Damascus, Syria**

Clint took a drag off his bummed cigarette and tilted his head up to look at the last of the stars. The sun would be up soon and chase away the clear, night sky. He had to admit, he loved the desert at night, when he wasn't being shot at. He'd give his men a few more minutes to sleep before he roused them for the march back to the boarder and a ride back to Baghdad. So far they had managed to break up a Hezbollah sleeper cell, find two illegal gun manufacturers, a prescription drug ring, and someone trying to counterfeit Louboutin shoes. In a way it disturbed him that he could pick out the designer but they were one of Nat's favorites so he made note of how they looked. They were supposed to have red soles, or so he had heard. Maybe he should have snagged her a pair so she didn't kick him in balls because he started smoking again.

He hadn't bothered to wake his relief, why should two people not get any sleep? He was exhausted and looking forward to getting back to base. He was tired of being shot at, cursed at, nearly blown up twice, and shaking snakes and scorpions out of sleeves. He missed Tasha and was hoping she would knock the shit out of him for something, just so he could feel. Yesterday, they had found a group that was selling arms and he had fired and killed a kid that couldn't have been more than 16 without thinking. He didn't like that he had started killing without thinking again. It was so easy to do with a gun, in the heat of combat. That was one of the many reasons he preferred his bow. Knocking, aiming, and firing were deliberate movements that required thought and focus. Not like pulling a trigger. Ending a life should be harder than pulling a trigger but it wasn't for him, not anymore.

He looked up, when he heard Beachhead approaching him. His sergeant dropped down beside him, leaning back on his pack and stared. Clint tried to ignore him but it was hard. He snuffed the end of his cigarette out and stared back. "With all due respect, sir," he started and Barton interrupted him.

"Beachhead, if you have to start a sentence to your commanding officer with, 'with all due respect,' you probably shouldn't say it."

"Noted, sir, but with all due respect, who are you?"

"I'm Captain Pierce, why who do you think I am?" he tried to laugh it off.

"I ain't sayin' you ain't Capt. Pierce, but I've seen you fight and I've seen you shoot and you don't fight or shoot like a your average Ranger." He continued, clearly flustered enough that his accent got even stronger. It was taking a lot for this man to question his CO. He was a good soldier, Clint hated lying to him.

"What do I fight and shoot like, then?"

"Between us, sir, like you're Special Forces. I've also seen the way the guys from Delta Force watch you. You're one of them, aren't you?" he finally spit out his question.

"If I were, I couldn't answer that question, now could I?" he shot back.

"So if I asked you, what would your answer be?" He pressed.

"I can neither confirm nor deny currently or previously serving under 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta," he answered and looked his staff sergeant in the eyes. If the man had half a brain he would realize he just admitted to being Delta Force.

"I see," Beachhead sighed.

Clint would have felt worse and maybe thrown him more of a bone but movement caught his eyes back towards the city. It was too early in the day for heat lines to distort things so he pulled out binoculars and watched a truck, a jeep, and a limo drive out into the desert. "That seem odd to you, sergeant?" he handed the binoculars over to Beachhead.

"That it does, sir, that it does. You want us to intercept?"

"No, we are here for fact finding, not interfering with the populace. But I think we should help them with that flat tire they have," he smiled, tugging his hat so the brim faced backwards.

"What flat tire?"

Clint flopped onto his belly, pulling out his sniper rifle and attaching a silencer. He aimed and fired, taking out the front wheel on the truck. "That one," he winked as he sat up, removing the silencer and slipping it into a pocket in his pants. Since the sun was mostly up, he pulled out his sunglasses. His vision was shit in super, bright light. The SHIELD docs said it had something to do with not enough cones and too man rods in his eyes, same reason he could see so well at night but was color blind. By midday, unless he kept his sunglasses on, his vision would turn into a horrid, yellow blur that gave him a massive headache. Why oh why couldn't his area of operations been the jungle instead of the desert?

"That was a hell of a shot, sir, we're over a mile away and a moving target?" he whistled, "just the type of shooting I would expect to see from a Delta Force sniper," he turned a cheeky grin on Clint and took off to rouse the troops. Max, the bomb dog, being the loudest to complain about waking, with a groan that sounded like moo as he stretched.

They covered the distance towards the vehicles quickly. They were nearly there when Max alerted his handler, Sanders, that there was a bomb close. Clint really hoped this was their break. He signaled for most of his men to stay back and he slung his rifle over his shoulder and walked towards them. Beachhead grabbed him, though. "Sir, are you sure you want to go up there alone, we don't know what they have in that truck? If you won't take back up, let me do go."

"You suddenly learn Arabic?" he asked, annoyed at being slowed down. Beachhead shook his head 'no.' "Then looks like it's me," he continued toward the car, rifle away from his hands but his left hand very close to the Markov pistol on his thigh. He smiled and shouted in perfect Arabic, "you look like you have a flat, need any help changing it?" he asked as he saw the passenger side window of the limo lower and the muzzle of a gun peak out. Without realizing he had even done it, he drew his pistol and fired, spraying the shooter's brains all over the driver. "I was afraid that was your answer," he said as he dropped and bullets started flying.

His men were good and quickly got control of the situation, even if the jeep had already turned tail and ran. However, when he opened the back of the transport truck, there was a missile that was clearly armed. "Well fuck," he breathed as he looked at it, the timer at 2 minutes. "Ellison," he called their EOD specialist, "what do you suggest?"

"I suggest we fucking run sir. I've never seen anything like that before," the kid seemed rattled and Clint couldn't help the sigh that escaped his mouth.

"I have," clear everyone back to 500 meters, ASAP, and give me your screw driver," he held his hand out and climbed into the truck. He was going to be cutting it close. On average it usually took him around 2 minutes to disarm one of Stark's weapons and he had 1 minute and 49 seconds. He set to work removing the cover and wasn't sure whether he should laugh or cry when he saw that the inner workings were nowhere near as complicated as Stark's but that the detonator was a triple rigged switch. This was the same bastard that bombed near the hotel and that rigged the bomb in Stark tower.

He quickly snipped the appropriate wires and climbed out, signaling Max and Sanders to check the other vehicle. There was one survivor a suited man from the back of the limo that stuttered in South American Spanish and carried no ID. Clint had him down on his knees to question when Private Herrara squatted beside the prisoner to help translate. Clint was about to tell him not to bother because he spoke fluent Spanish, when a shot rang out. The bullet exploded the suited man's head and lodged in Herrara's neck. Blood gouted out of his troop's neck, spraying across flak jacket and sleeves. He immediately dropped, drew his pistol, and turned his head to spy the jeep against speeding off. He returned fire, and was fairly sure he hit a passenger and maybe winged the shooter but the distance was too far for a 9 mil to be an assured kill, especially with all the dust from the tires obscuring his sight. They were at least three quarters of a mile out and quickly returning to the city. It was hard shot. It would take a good marksman to make it.

By the time he turned back around, the medic was trying to save Private Herrara but Clint could tell it was no use. The bullet had clipped his at least his external carotid artery and maybe even the internal. There was no getting back up from that. He looked down and as the medic moved his hand to try and tape down the wound, and blood pumped in an arc over his boots and pant legs. His first thought was that now he was going to have to clean his boots. His second was how fucked up it was that he was watching one of his men bleed to death and he was worried about his boots.

He knelt beside Herrara and took the man's hand. It was already mostly limp and his eyes were barely open. It hadn't even been two minutes. He looked his soldier in the eyes and said in Spanish, "it's ok, Herrara, just relax. We'll take you home." A small smile played on the dying man's lips and he closed his eyes. He wouldn't open them again.

Clint rose and continued to limo. He opened the back door, ignoring the gore and checked the bodies for identification. Of course there was none so he took pictures of the men in the front, then crawled into the back with another suited man and cut his right thumb off, wrapping it in plastic. He repeated the act of desecration on their former prisoner and tucking them into his jacket pocket. Maybe SHIELD could get a hit off their prints.

By the time he was finished, the medic was tagging and bagging Private Herrara. Clint didn't know much about him, other than he was from Orange County, spoke Spanish, and had a wife. He guessed he wouldn't know anything else about him, either. "Beachhead, we'll need another body bag to get that missile back to base. When you're done, police all the brass, even if you have to pull it out of body," he ordered and started setting charges under the vehicles. He couldn't let there be proof that American's engaged in combat in Syria.

**Thursday June 14th** **8:09 am Damascus, Syria**

He winced as the scarf covered woman finished taping up the wound on his side. Hawkeye had nailed him with a grazing wound his lower, right ribcage. Not fatal but painful as hell. He looked over at Hazine, as she wept and wailed over the body of her brother, Adir. Barton had somehow managed to return fire, and hit him right below the heart. He had bled out into his chest cavity. He sometimes forgot how goddamn good that kid was. No one should be able to hit two moving targets, from ¾ of a mile away, with a pistol. The sand kicking up from the tires was the only thing that saved his life.

He walked over to Hazine, her beautiful, brown eyes bloodshot from crying. Her hands stained with her baby brother's blood. "Shh, sweetheart, calm down," he cooed in Arabic. He led her away to low couch helping her sit as other moved to begin cleaning the body. He took her hands and began to wipe the gore away. Blood shouldn't touch her. She continued to weep. "Please calm, down, my love, this isn't good for the baby," he touched her slightly swollen belly. At only 4 and a half months, she had yet to grow large.

"He killed my brother, she grasped his vest, you will make him pay," she said through gnashed teeth.

"I will, but we need to wait," he counseled.  He needed to find another way.  He couldn't kill Hawkeye. 

"No, you will kill him, an eye for an eye!"

"Listen, Hazine, I can't kill Barton, not right now. If we do, we risk bring all of SHIELD down on us, unless I can make it look like an accident or suicide, which will be hard. Or worse, we'll bring his psycho partner down on us. She won't follow rules and won't care about international treaties. She'll keep coming until she is dead or we are," he kissed her forehead and wiped her tears away. "I know it's hard but Hawkeye, I can handle. He's one person and he trusts me. He lets his guard down around me. I can obfuscate, and confuse him. I won't stand a chance if I have to try that on Black Widow or another SHIELD agent."

"I understand," she straightened and her tears dried up. "his death will be more fitting, if I can see it myself," she rose and headed towards the door. "I'll be in the lab, I need to fabricate another missile to replace the one he took," she swept away and he knew better than to bother her while she was working. He leaned back and closed his eyes, allowing his body to relax for a few minutes before he had to hotfoot it back to Baghdad.

**Friday June 15th** **12:00 am US Army Base Baghdad, Iraq**

Clint took a drag off his newly lit cigarette and snapped his zippo closed. It was a gaudy, green camouflage number with the Marine Corps emblem on the front and "Semper Fidelis" on the back. It had belonged to Coulson.  The two of them had quit smoking at the same time, which had made for 3 weeks of very short tempers.  His father, General Coulson, had told Clint to keep it, when he had brought Phil's things home to his family. He had wanted to refuse but he had also wanted something from Squawks to hold onto. The General seemed to understand and pressed it into his hand, along with a photo of the three of them, when they had dragged him to a Pittsburg Steelers' game. He had pretty bored, very uncomfortable in the wide open stadium, and utterly confused at what the fuss was about. They had bought him a Steelers' jersey and made him wear it and had the people in front of them snap the picture. It was one of the the only pictures he had of him and Phil together. He kept it at Stark's tower because it hurt too much to keep it on the Helicarrier. Of course, even his grief over Squawks's death was dulling lately. He hoped it was acceptance of his loss but he was afraid it was something else.

Before his thoughts spiraled into a maudlin puddle of how much he missed old handler, he heard a visitor on the roof with him. Gator had left him a note to meet him at midnight in his "nest." It wasn't a big deal, since he had to meet Tasha anyway and the less he and Gator were seen talking, the better.

"Hey, Gator, what did you need to talk to me about?" he asked his friend, as the man stood stiffly beside him. Clint couldn't miss the way he favored his right side, he had clearly been wounded. "What happened to you, man?"

"It's stupid, laughable, actually. I was tooling around Baghdad on my bike, waiting for an informant to make a drop, and this kid runs out in front of me. I slam on the breaks and go ass over tail and take a handle bar in the floating rib," he grimaced. "Which makes the climb up here so not fun. Why can't you like leaning against cars rather than perching on ledges?"

"Cars can explode," he answered simply, feeling bad his friend was hurt. "Well, you're up here now, so what's going on?" he took another drag.

"I thought you quit," Gator motioned to the cancer stick dangling from his lip.

"I did. And when this is whole fucked up mess is finished, I'll quit again," he answered.

"Speaking of fucked up messes, I hear you brought a bomb back with you." Clint grunted non commitally, it was no doubt common knowledge by now. Though, technically it was a missile not a bomb. "You find anything interesting about it?"

"Interesting, how?"

"I don't know, it's just unusual that someone would bring a whole missile back rather than just the dangerous parts of it. That goes against EOD conventions," Gator pressed.

"I'm unconventional," Clint quipped, then mentally started at something Gator had said. "I'm sorry about making you shimmy up here. If I had known you were hurt, I would have agreed to meet somewhere else. You should have just grabbed me when I came back in or was that, when you were in medical?"

"Yeah, I was stuck being tapped up when you got back but no worries. I just wanted to let you know, I have heard rumblings of some gun runners that are shipping weapons by sea into Damascus. They are coming up from South Africa and going through the port." He looked over the base as he lit his own cigarette.

Clint wanted to question more, but let it drop. He was being paranoid from lack of sleep. All the Delta boys had the highest level of clearance, the highest trust level by the government. None of them could be involved in any of this. Gator must have heard from one of his friend's in EOD that it was a missile. Not to mention the info about the Port could be useful.

"Thanks, man. I haven't seen any South African vessels on the Port's manifests but that doesn't mean I didn't miss them. I'll have someone check them out." He noticed Gator looking at his gun intently.

"That is one interesting side arm, brother. Clearly not Government Issue," he pointed to Clint's Markov pistol.

"Not our Government, at least," he took it out, dropping the clip and clearing the chamber then handing it over to his friend. Gator raised an eyebrow at him before accepting the weapon. Clint shrugged, "there is only one person alive I trust to hand a loaded weapon to."

"Yeah and my tits aren't as nice," Gator finished as he examined the gun. "It must be a bitch to get rounds for?" he pointed it with his right hand then noticed it was a left-handed grip and switched hands.

"I had it modified so it could take 9x19mm NATO round but can also still fire the original 9x18mm Soviet ammo," he explained.

"In case you need it to look like a Russian took someone out?" he questioned with a smile, eliciting a wink from Barton. "I taught you well, Grasshopper. So where does someone like me get a piece like this?"

"Make friends with someone that goes through Spetsnaz like Kleenex," he quipped.

"What's this say?" Gator asked about a Russian word, etched into the muzzle.

"K Моему Cупругy, it means 'to my partner' in Russian," he sort of lied. It was actually a joke on Natasha's part. When he had given her his purple heart, he had gotten "to my partner" etched on the back of it, in Russian. At the time, his Russian was functional but not flawless. He made mistakes and confused when to use synonyms based on cultural meaning. As such, he had used 'супругa' for partner, not realizing that it was used more for wife or lover rather than a friendly partnership. Tasha had thought it was funny so when she gave him the pistol she used the word for 'husband,' instead of the more appropriate товарищ.

"Nice," he handed it back. "anyway, it's late and I'm drugged. If I hear anything else about weapons movement, I'll let you know ASAP. If you aren't here, should I find your better half?"

"Yeah, just leave her a note and she'll meet with you. Just don't try to sneak up on her, please. I don't want to tell your daughter you got your neck snapped by a pissed off red head."

He turned to leave then stopped, "Hey, Hawkeye, I heard you lost a man too?"

He nodded in the affirmative, looked down at his nearly finished cigarette. "Private Herrara."

"I know it's hard, brother, but be happy that it is. When it starts getting easy, is when you need to worry," he said and disappeared over the edge. He examined his feelings and wondered if he should be concerned. Losing his troop hadn't been easy but it hadn't been as hard as it probably should. He felt about as emotionally connected to Herrara's loss as the idea of replacing his shoes, inconvenienced but not inconsolable. Which reminded him, he needed to clean his boots.

**Friday June 15th** **12:30 am US Army Base Baghdad, Iraq**

After receiving the all clear, Natasha swung unto the roof to meet Clint. She had barely talked to him and hadn't seen him in 2 weeks. It bothered her that every time she saw him he looked thinner and more tired. She knew this mission was a bad idea. They should have just let Tony get whacked. She also noticed that he reeked of blood, sweat and cigarette smoke. The first two were fine the 3rd was an unacceptable, filthy, disgusting habit.

"You stink," he said by way of greeting.

"I haven't showered yet," he defended himself and started chewing on his thumb nail. She hadn't seen him do that in years.

"I meant the smoke," she corrected as she stood in front of him, her hand on his cheek, running her thumb over the stubble. She refused to kiss him on the mouth, if he had been smoking, so she settled for resting her forehead against his and kissing the tip of his nose.

"Sorry," he apologized and wrapped his arms around her back in a brief but tight hug. It just highlighted to her how much weight he had lost. He tucked two objects into pocket and pulled away. She fingered them noticing that they were thumbs, gross. "See if you can get anything off those prints, please?"

"I will. The missile is already on its way to the Helicarrier to see if they can get any trace evidence," she watched him sink down and followed him to the floor. They both sat lotus style, their knees touching. This close, she could see the bags under his eyes and how blood shot they were. He hadn't been sleeping, that was obvious and dangerous. Sleep deprivation lengthened your reaction time and impaired logical thinking. Both attributes were pretty damned important in combat. But then again Clint was one of the worst chronic insomniacs she had ever met, in some ways worse than her. He was used to being highly functioning after being up for 48 plus hours. It was in fact a job requirement for a good sniper.

"I talked to Steve and Bruce this morning, they said, 'hi,'" she started. He grunted and looked at his hands. His nails were filthy and he still had on his fingerless gloves. She never had understood how he could stand to have so much of his skin covered in the desert heat He told her to leave a gun in direct sunlight in 125 degree heat for an hour and see how much she wanted to touch it with bare skin. She supposed it made sense. She couldn't help but notice a blood splatter on his uniform leg. It looked like it was from arterial spray. "So any luck figuring out who is behind this?"

"No," he answered and moved his thumb back to mouth to start chewing on his dirty nail again. She pulled his hand down and held it. "Unless you guys can figure out who those thumbs belong to," he explained the fight, and how that guy had been a prisoner but that whoever had been in the jeep had come back and killed him before he could talk. "I'm pretty sure I killed one of them and wounded another but I can't be sure. It isn't like I can go through Syria and get hospital records for anyone treated with a gunshot wound," he sighed. "Gator said he we should check the docks. He heard that ships from South Africa were bringing in weapons. If that is the case, we're looking in the wrong place."

"I'll check it out," he told him and listened as he answered Hill and Fury's questions, all the while not looking at her. That made her nervous. When they were finished, neither of them made a move to leave, both equally glad to see the other one. "Who's blood is that?" she pointed to his pant leg and had to hold his hand tight to stop him from chewing on his nails. She knew it was an unconscious stress reliever but it annoyed her and was way too obvious of a tell. He was becoming more a soldier and less a spy every minute he was here.

"Private Herrara's, the bullet that killed the prisoner went was a through and through and lodged in his neck, severed the arteries on the right side. There was nothing the medic could do," he answered. She had seen the body bag, when he returned but hadn't comment on it. What bothered was the rather clinical way he talked about losing one of his men. He was becoming colder as well, the longer he stayed here. He was turning back into the type of person that would have taken the shot when he saw her, rather than the one that hadn't. That scared her and when he finally met her eyes; she could see it scared him too.

"I'm so fucking tired, Tasha," he dropped his head and she put her hand on the back of his neck, massaging the stiff muscles. Without constant weight training, his physique was becoming that of the endurance athlete he actually was. Like all SHIELD military guys, he had to pass two Special Forces tests a year to remain on active duty. He could choose from the Delta Force test, Navy SEAL, British SAS, or Israeli Mosad. All of them required at least a 40 mile run and he had passed all four of them for 8 years in row. Just normally he also had a lot of plyometrics and weight training to add bulk. She liked him better bulky.

"I know, Clint, I know," she whispered and pulled him over so that he head rested against her stomach as she lied down. She stroked her fingers through his hair. It was crusted with sweat and sand and so greasy she was sure he was going to leave a slime stain on her shirt. But then again that is what going 2 weeks with no bath does to people. She ignored it though and ran her fingers through it, and began to tell him about what Steve and Bruce had talked about. It didn't take long before the sound of her voice and the feeling of safety around her lulled him to sleep. She tucked her arm behind her head and looked at the stars, wondering how much she would tell Roger's tomorrow.

She let him sleep for almost 5 hours, she wished she could give him more but they needed the cover of darkness to get back to their respective bunks and her legs were pretty freakin' numb. She tapped his face and called his name, which got no response. She smiled. That was one of the funny little quirks about Barton, he could go days without sleep but once he finally fell asleep, you could roll him off a cliff and he wouldn't notice. It was one of the reasons she liked to stick close to him when he was like this, to watch his back while he was dead to world.

No longer playing it nice, she tugged on the hair at his temple and pinched his nose shut. That finally woke him. "Time to get up, sleepyhead," she couldn't hide the grin at his the way half his hair was plastered to his head and the other half was sticking up every which way because of her. He groaned and sat up. He always looked so cute like this, cranky, and sleepy. She couldn't help sitting up and kissing him.

"What was that for?" he asked. Even in his groggy state, realizing how odd it was for her to be affectionate during a mission.

"Because no one is around and I could," she stood up, immediately feeling pins and needles in her legs. Only for Clint Barton would she allow herself to be in this much discomfort just so he could take a nap. He shook his head like he understood but still seemed a little dazed. "I'll let you know as soon I hear anything back about fingerprints from the missile or from these," she fingered the severed thumbs in her pockets as she stamped her feet.

He stopped at the edge before swinging over. False dawn was behind him, and he turned and walked back to her. He stopped when they were toe to toe, and took her face in his hands, kissing her forehead. It was her turn to wrap her arms around his back. "Thanks, Natashen'ka, I've missed you," he breathed into her hair. Her legs forgotten, when faced with Clint again, not the cold, emotionless soldier and not the SHIELD agent, but her partner. She had really missed him too.

"I've missed you too, Clint," she whispered back and they went their separate ways. She ran by her room and grabbed her shower supplies, wanting to wash off the sweat from spending that much time outside and the grime from Barton. Her roommates roused slightly when she entered but went back to sleep. The women thought she was having an affair with one of the other officers, they weren't wrong, so she let them think it. It gave her a good excuse to be gone at all hours of the day and night.

She cleaned up quickly and made her way off base to the apartment she used to contact SHIELD or the other Avengers. It was ridiculously easy to get in and out of the base with no one the wiser. She was almost embarrassed for the US Army but then again not that many people were as good as her.

"Hey, Cap," she dialed in and waited for a response.

"Hi Natasha, how are you? It's just me this time. We had a battle earlier today and Bruce is sleeping off his rampage and Tony is in medical," he explained. She hated to admit it, but she was bummed. She liked talking to Banner, he was clever and sweet without being fake like Stark or ridiculously nice like Rogers.

"How bad is Tony?" she asked instead.

"Not too bad. He has some pretty bad bruising on his back and he dislocated his shoulder but the docs said he will be up and around in day or two," he explained.

"That's good. Hawkeye managed to bring us back some good evidence. He captured a missile made by the same person that tried to bomb Stark Tower. SHIELD is looking into it for trace evidence. He also got some prints off some other people that were there. Hopefully we can identify them." She told him.

"Why didn't he just ask them?"

"There weren't any survivors," she told him plainly. He would understand or not, it wasn't really her concern.

"Oh," there was a pause, "How is Agent Barton doing?" He finally asked.

"On the record he's doing well. He lost a troop yesterday but brought back a solid lead."

"How about off the record?" Roger's dropped his voice, like it would make a difference.

"Off the record," she ran her hands through her damp hair. It was almost dry from the head already.  She almost didn't answer but decided that Hill needed to hear this. "Off the record, not so good. He's closing himself off and pulling away, even from me. He's not sleeping and he's acting cold, disconnect. He talked about his soldier dying like it was nothing, just another day at the farm," she confessed. She needed to talk to someone and she knew she could trust Steve to give her some guidance. Times like this she missed Phil the most. He would have listened and known what to do. He was the one that had originally snapped Clint out of being that dead eyed, killer.

"Well, Natasha, he is a career soldier, he is probably used to losing men," he started.

"No, you don't get it. Clint would care, he might not show it but he would tell me. It's not like him to be so unaffected by one of his men dying," she realized that to Cap it sounded strange. He knew Barton but not Clint. He knew the standoffish soldier/agent, whose feathers were impossible to ruffle. He only saw snippets of Clint, the guy that couldn't watch  _All Dogs Go to Heaven_ without getting depressed for a week or the one that still felt guilty over what Loki made him do. And maybe that was what was bothering her so much. She had barely known Agent Barton, only Clint and now he was shutting her out and being his unflappable self even to her. It hurt and it scared her. "He's not like that, not normally," she finished lamely.

"I believe you," he reassured her. "Is there anything I can do? Maybe if I talked to him, or if I came over to help?"

She couldn't stop herself from grinning, "Sorry, Rogers, you're a little too high profile for this type of work."

"I guess, just," he seemed flustered for a minute. "Just both of you take care of yourselves. Every day on the news, there is something else about how dangerous it is in Syria and he is walking right through the middle of it." She felt herself soften towards him. He was such a sickeningly good person.

"I will, Steve. I'll watch my own and his back. Look, I need to contact Hill and see if they have anything for me. I'll talk to you later," she hung up and dialed SHIELD, hoping they would be able to tell her some good news.

TBC


	6. Fire in the Hole

 

 

 

A/N 2: There are some dark images in this section but trust me, I have a plan. When I write stories, I tend to come up with them by envisioning scenes then stringing them together with a plot or at least I try to have a plot. When I started coming up with this story, one of the scenes in the this chapter was the first one I came up with but when I wrote it, it kept coming across as too shocking or too tame. I hope I struck a balance and that you enjoy. 

Thanks,

-Naja

**Into the Fire Chapter 5: Fire in the Hole**

**Monday August 6** **th** **11:59pm US Army Base Baghdad, Iraq**

Natasha landed, cat quiet on the on the roof beside Clint. He didn't even look at her, just stood there smoking and staring over the camp. He looked awful, exhausted, filthy, and wrecked. She waited for him to acknowledge her but he just continued his glassy-eyed gaze into the distance. She wondered what could have happened this time, to set him so far on edge or maybe it wasn't one thing, maybe it was everything. They had been here for over four months and he hadn't really had a day off yet. It would be different, she guessed, if he wasn't also seeing so much combat, but his team was. They had actually been pretty invaluable for taking out terrorist cells. Even Fury had commented that his entire team deserved medals for their work of course they would never get them because they weren't supposed to be there. Like everything else Barton did, no one would ever know it was him.

She grew tired of waiting for him and touched his shoulder. He didn't flinch, he barely reacted at all, so focused on something she couldn't track. "Hawkeye," she called his name and he finally looked at her.

"Romanov," he stuttered, looking vaguely confused for a moment before he recovered. It worried her that he hadn't known she was there. He seemed to notice her concern and shook his head, "Hey, Widow, how are things going?" he gave her a cheeky grin, crinkling the corners of his eyes but not touching them. It was a good act, he might have fooled anyone, except her, with his Stepford smile. If a smile didn't light his eyes, it wasn't a real smile.

"Things are about the same, you find anything?" She was honestly getting tired of asking him that question. She knew he was doing everything he could to find the people responsible, but she was growing frustrated with his inability to do so. She knew it was worse for him. She would have to step carefully around the subject. She knew him and knew this was probably wreaking havoc on his perpetually low opinion of his own worth as anything other than a hired killer.

"Nothing new," he sighed and ran his hand through his dirty hair. He had just gotten back an hour ago. He hadn't even eaten yet but then again, she hadn't missed the 2 body bags and 3 wounded his team had brought back. She didn't understand why they bothered. The soldiers were dead, what difference did it make but he had been insistent, 'everybody comes home.' "I thought, I thought we had a lead but it turned out to be black market Stark Weapons. Did you manage to find anything from the names I sent you?" he questioned.

"No, none of them have been in country before last week. If they have anything to do with the bootlegs, it's only as the bankroll," she explained and watched him deflate. She sat down as Fury started to question him, in hopes he would do the same. It worked, though he chain smoked through the whole thing.

After Fury was finished, they sat in silence for a while, his eyes going back to their listless stare into the camp. She couldn't tell if he was watching something important or too tired to focus on anything specific. When she tracked his line of sight, all she found were a group of soldiers, nothing interesting or suspicious looking. She thought she saw Gator among them but couldn't be sure at this distance.

"You look tired, when was the last time you slept?" she questioned.

"What day is it?" he asked back, then sighed again, scratching at a gash on his forearm that looked slightly infected. "I don't know what to do, it's like trying to find one specific needle in a haystack only you don't know what the needle looks like. Everywhere we turn, someone is doing something illegal and or detrimental to National Security but we can't find the one set of people we need," he lifted his hand to start chewing on his thumb nail and she pulled it out of his mouth and onto her lap, like a child. "They should have picked someone else. They should have found someone better, somebody smarter." She knew it was coming but it didn't lesson the jolt at hearing him second guess himself.

Throughout their relationship, both professionaland personal, they had a silent understanding about ways they could and could not taunt each other. He called her a whore but there was no venom behind it, more of a playful joke because he was so puritan and repressed in his views on sex. She called him a hayseed because he knew how to milk cows, ride horses, and sex chickens. But there were certain words they never used because too many others had cruelly, ruthlessly, thrown them too many times. He never called her crazy because he knew how much she feared losing her tenuous grip on her reality. He had once beaten a guy to death with a hammer for calling her a psycho, the irony of it still made her smile. She never called him stupid because that was his father's, his brother's, and most everyone else's favorite insult for him, including himself. He had once told her that Phil was the first person to never think of him as a  _dumb fucking carnie_  just because he had only had a GED at the time and hadn't been to a real school since he was ten.

"There is no one better," she defended him, even to himself. "We'll find them, Clint, we'll find them and we'll go back," she pulled him over and whispered into his ear. He didn't answer, just started chewing on his other filthy thumb nail until it was bloody. "You need to get some sleep," she pulled his other hand down.

"I know, I've been trying, I just," he trailed off and squirmed his hand out to chew on it again. She sort of wanted to punch him, if he didn't stop doing that. She stood up and went to the edge, scanning the area to make her escape. "You're leaving?" he sounded like he might cry, not that she had ever seen him cry, and her stomach felt fluttery at the idea that he missed her as much as she missed him.

She smiled at him as she dropped down, "take a shower and meet me at your barracks in 15 minutes." She gave him exactly 18 minutes, before slipping into his itsy, bitsy room. As a Captain, he was at least given his own quarters but they were small, even smaller than his room on the Helicarrier and unlike his bunk on the ship, this one only had one sad, twin bed. Oh well, it wouldn't be the most uncomfortable spot ever.

She found him sitting on the edge of the cot, elbows on his knees and drab, green t-shirt clinging to his back, still wet from his shower. The yellow light made him look even more sallow and drawn, under the sun and wind burn. She locked his door, something considered gauche on base, and walked up to him. His eyes stayed locked on hers and she could easily read just how tightly he was strung. She stopped with her feet between his and reached out to pull his thumb out of his mouth, feeling both the mother and the seductress.

"Tasha," he whispered and she held her fingers to her lips to silence him. They were being monitored by voice 24 hours a day and she wanted this to stay private. He seemed to understand her and leaned forward to rest his forehead against her stomach. She ran her fingers through his wet hair and he pressed a soft kiss to her hip bone. He was the only man she had ever had sex with that did things like that, sweet, playful, little things.

She knelt in front of him, pulling his forehead down to meet her own. She ran her thumb against the hair on the back of his neck, the tip of it grazing the back of his ear. It hurt her to see him like this, so worn down and raw. He was shutting down more and more every time she saw him. Reacting less and less to things like death and combat. Clint was disappearing behind Captain Pierce and she couldn't let that happen. She had promised him she wouldn't let that happen. She leaned forward, closing the small distance between them to kiss him. It took a moment but he eventually returned the kiss, his callused hand on her face.

She pulled away, looking into his eyes. She needed to judge if this was a good idea or not. They were almost never intimate during jobs, it was too distracting. When they were working they always kept things professional. The most they ever allowed themselves was to sleep side by side but it had been four months and she missed him. She missed his scent, the weight of his hands, the feel of him inside of her. It wasn't just the sex either. She missed her bedmate, her favorite pillow, the feeling of safety of having her partner right beside her. But at the same time, he was exhausted and needed sleep more than she needed sex.

She hesitated for a breath, indecision warring with desire when he breathed her name. It was an exhalation with no sound, just his lips forming the shape of the nickname he had given her. She pulled her shirt over her head, dog tags jingling against her chest, and pushed him onto his back. She leapt onto the bed, straddling his hips, her hands already greedily tugging his shirt free of his pants so she could taste the residue of the cheap, Army soap on his torso. His rough hands were gentle on her shoulders.

That had probably been one of the biggest surprises for her, when they had first had sex. She assumed he would be as rough and tumble in bed as he was everywhere else. And he could be. Neither of them was above a quick, rough, adrenaline fueled fuck to work off the last of the excess energy after a fight. But generally, when they had the time and the privacy, he was tender, almost reverent with his touches. His eyes always seeking permission before moving to the next level. Though he never said it, she could tell that at one point someone had not asked his. He always made sure she had fun, always made sure she was comfortable, always made her feel special, always made her forget all the times she had given herself to useless men for missions, always made her feel wanted and worthy rather than lusted after and possessed, and always held her afterwards. She had never known how wonderful that felt, until he had wrapped his arms around her and he had confessed he never knew how nice it could be either because she was the first he allowed to stay around him after sex.  But then again, he had some serious hang ups about sex. 

She wondered sometimes, though was too afraid to ask, what he got out it, other than good fuck that was. But after seven and a half years, he was still faithful to her, still had never strayed unless ordered to, never cheated on her, never so much as paid attention to another woman. He had never tried to own her, control her, or change her. She knew some of it was fear of her jealous retribution, and some was his natural inability to form attachments with people. But either way, he was always there when she came back from some mission where lies fell from her lips like tears and she used her looks and body to entice the Mark. He never judged her or looked down on her, all he ever did was hand her his jacket and tell her to, "take a shower and go to bed." Then he would hold her until that hunted, dirty feeling went away. But maybe that was her answer; maybe he found the same thing she did, complete acceptance because she never judged him either. She didn't care when he came in, windblown and smelling of gun powder and death, so exhausted he could barely stand, much less figure out what he needed to do next, and so much dried blood on his boots that she had to soak the laces to be able to untie them. All she did was look him up and down for injuries then toss him in the shower, sometimes fully clothed, and make him stay there until the water ran clear. Then she would lie in bed with him and hold him until that haunted, numb feeling went away.

She made short work of her pants and enjoyed the time it took to get them both ready. She hoped he wouldn't care that she had let personal grooming slide during the mission. Frankly army bases were not known for having a good salon that could do a kitty cat wax. She took him inside herself with one thrust and it was his turn to shush her. He felt so transcendent to her in that instant that it nearly sent her over the edge. When they were finished, she forced him to stay in bed as she cleaned them up and lied down, tucking herself against him. It was amazing to feel his nose buried in her hair and feel his arm around her waist. Who would believe that the world's two deadliest assassins both loved to cuddle.

She could hear his breaths even out into sleep and allowed herself to zone out. She knew she couldn't fall completely asleep for risk of over staying the night. She amused herself by tracing the calluses on his hands with her finger tips and feeling the changes in his forearms. The muscles were even wirier than before with veins standing out against the flesh. He was rangy and thin, making him appear even older than he did before. Clint had never carried extra fat, always being muscular but he had lost that recently and looked starved and unhealthy. She supposed it worked in her favor, though. Few women ever paid much attention to him because he was plain and average looking at best but he looked pretty bad now so even fewer would. The thought didn't make her happy though, it just worried her. At least she wouldn't have to threaten to scar his face for talking to other women.

She waited till just before dawn before slipping out of his embrace. It was odd how she suddenly felt cold, even with the intense heat of the desert. She quietly slipped from his room with the same secrecy she had entered. She didn't care one wit for her reputation or that of her alias, but Clint used "Captain Pierce" frequently and his name needed to remain unsullied by dalliances with junior officers.

She felt, rather than strictly heard someone approach her from the dark and she tensed for action, though her posture remained relaxed. Before she sprang, she heard a rolling southern accent, "you scratch that itch that's been botherin' you?" She immediately recognized the voice and scent of Marlboro Red's as belonging to Gator.

"And which itch is that, pray tell," she questioned him haughtily, eyeing the rifle hanging off his back. It was a sniper rifle, custom fabricated  with a titanium, double grooved barrelmade like Clint's.   It could fire specially made ceramic bullets that had once been Hawkeye's calling card.  Barton had given to him about 2 years ago as a gift. Maybe it was a guy thing but wasn't a knife just easier?

"Come on now, I've been around the block enough times to recognize a walk of shame when I see one," he smiled at her over his cigarette, the embers reflecting in his brown eyes.

"Why on Earth do you think I would be ashamed?" she questioned him and his grin spread across his whole face.

"Point taken, darlin'," he conceded but pressed on, "you must have been doing him right and proper to take that long, I've been waiting out here for nearly 4 hours."

"Any job worth doing, is worth doing right," she countered but pressed on, "what did you need to see him about?"

"I can see why you're his voodoo-poonanny but anyway don't have to be him, I just needed to pass along a bit of information I heard. Seems that there is some big ta'do going on next week in Damascus. The word is that everyone on the black market is planning to attend. Figured it might be the guy Hawkeye's been looking for." He crushed his butt under his dirty boot.

"Do you know what day?" she wondered, Steve and Tony were coming back in the day after tomorrow to try and ferret out the bootleggers but there was no way that anyone but her knew that. She hadn't even told Clint yet.

"No idea, I just know that the underworld is talking and I tend to listen when it does," she grunted at him and he turned to leave. "I hope he finds these bastards soon, he's turning back into the old Hawkeye and I kind of miss the one that smiles," she concurred but remained silent.

**Wednesday August 8** **th** **, 4:05 pm Baghdad Airport**

Tony, swallowed the last of his water and aspirin to offset the hangover he had and followed Pepper to the door of the plane. He kept his hand firmly clamped on his suit in briefcase form to prevent it from shaking. He had zero desire to be here but even he wasn't selfish enough to not go, knowing full well that the investigation was at a standstill until they could find a way to draw out the bootleggers. He was however, selfish enough to allow Pepper to join him for moral support and to not fight Rhodey when he had insisted on coming as well. Rogers was there, of course, but Steve was in Captain mode and was clearly getting tired of Tony's shit.

He emerged into the bright midday sun and had to swallow back a wave of nausea as the landscape resolved itself. He wasn't sure if it was from stress or from the fact he had gotten drunk and partially sobered up on the flight over. They were to be greeted by a military escort and taken to a secured hotel before their meet and greet with the men tomorrow.  He immediately picked out Natasha's even with her red hair covered. He slouched beside Rhodey, who stood ramrod straight in his Air Force uniform.  The Capital Hill flyboy seems out of place amongst the hardened grunts that met them.

Before he could scan any further, two of the men broke from the shadows of the vehicles and walked their way. One was the size of a house, with his sleeves rolled up and some sort of tattoo on his forearm. He had Sergeant Stripes and a nametag that read "Sneeden," what a goofy name. Not that he would tell that behemoth of a human that, not without his suit on any way. He followed a shorter, lighter built man that moved like a cat, quiet and deadly across the tarmac. He was slight of build and easily ignored but he had an aura about him, and almost physical presence that he was not someone to fuck with. His face was covered with a cap and sunglasses and he had a pistol on each thigh and carried a rather wicked looking riffle slung across his back. If Tony remembered correctly, his rank insignia marked him as a Captain and when he was close enough, he noticed the name tag read, "Pierce."

Tony couldn't help the gasp that escaped him nor did he miss that Steve had done so shortly before and Pepper shortly after him. It had been four months since they had seen their resident sniper and in a word, the man looked like shit. Even under the ACUs, gear, and flak jacket, it was obvious he had lost at least 25 pounds. The bones of his face, stood out in sharp points under his sunglasses, making him look as avian as his call sign. His exposed forearms over his gloves looked like veiny beef jerky, covered bone. Also, why had he never before noticed that air of danger, nearly murderous intent, around their fellow Avenger before. He sometimes forgot that being friends with Natasha and Clint was like keeping a tiger and cobra as roommates. They were as placid as pie until they weren't and when they weren't you better get the hell out of their way. A tiger and a cobra were perfect corollaries for them too. Natasha was all growling and stalking, while Barton was all silence and death. The funniest part was that she was much more likely to start fights but he was usually the one that finished them.

So shocked, by his fellow Avenger's appearance, Tony almost missed him flicking his finished cigarette away as he approached. When had he started smoking? He had never seen Clint smoke before. The man had habitually turned down all his offers to go to some of the most expensive cigar bars in the country.

The two stopped in front of them and saluted. Rhodes and Rogers immediately saluted right back. They all stood in stunned silence for a moment until he waved behind him, towards two humvees and two cars that look like dune buggies with guns on them, "whenever you guys are ready to get out of the sun." He turned and headed back towards the vehicles. The sound of his voice disturbed Stark just as much as his appearance. There was no humor to blunt the caustic edges that reminded him of Hawkeye and none of the soft spoken mumbling he associated with Clint. This person in front of him was brusque, bordering on rude, with a clear, easily understood tone. It took Tony a moment to realize it but the cadence, pronunciation, and general tone of his speech was a dead ringer for Coulson, down to the sharp Central Pennsylvania O's.

He quickly followed behind Rogers once the shock wore off. Pepper stopped him though and whispered, "is that Barton?" He nodded his head and shooshed her. No one here needed to know he wasn't Pierce at least not yet.

He was about to climb into one of the larger cars with Pepper when Hawkeye stopped them. "No," he pointed to Rhodes and Pepper. "You two in the next one with Lt. Tokarev," he motioned to the Humvee behind them. "Beachhead," he called to the large sergeant, "you get point," he raised his voice, "and I want those 50 cals manned the entire ride. So much as a gnat hits us and I'll send you home in a sandwich baggie."

He almost flinched at the choruses of "sir, yes, sir" that were returned. He recovered though, and climbed into the transport beside Rogers, though they were separated by a man standing at the gun. The heat inside of the Humvee was almost as bad as outside but somehow worse for the smell of the solders crammed inside. He felt his stomach turn again and went to unroll his window. "Leave that up!" Barton barked at him from the front seat without even turning around. Apparently he still had eyes in the back of his head. Tony sank down and tried to breathe through his mouth as the crowded, brown city crawled by.

Stark let his mind wonder as the people and cars swirled around them yet gave them a wide berth. The looks thrown at them were anywhere from curious to condemning. People spit towards them while others shouted. He glanced over and noticed the drawn expression on Steve's face. Apparently his companion was starting to understand the dynamics of modern occupation and it wasn't sitting well with him.

After what seemed like an eternity they pulled up to a large building and were greeted by two more soldiers, one holding a large, angry looking, black German Shepherd. As soon as Clint exited the vehicle, they snapped to and saluted him. Tony tried to ignore the way the dog seemed to be eyeballing him for some reason. Dogs never like him, actually any type of animal seemed to dislike him. He still had scars from Pepper's pissy Persian cat. "Sir," the one with the hell hound called, "we swept the place and it's clean. Penthouse is good, stairwells, elevator, roof, boiler room, foundation, all good. We did find some rats in the kitchen but other than that nothing to worry about."

"Well done, Sander, Max," Clint complimented and held his fist out towards the dog, who immediately put his paw up in a modified, interspecies knuckle bump.  Why was he not surprised Barton liked dogs.  The man had a personality like a German Shepherd, methodical, brave, aloof with strangers, loyal to his handler, and potentially vicious to everyone else. 

"Sir?" the man asked, looking down at his feet, "is that really Captain America and Iron Man?"

"The two white guys, I'm not sure who the flyboy is," he gestured towards Rhodes, who pursed his lips in an annoyed fashion. He could already tell Rhodey didn't like 'Pierce.'

"Do you think you could ask Captain America to sign Max's vest?" Sander's asked again, with a blush.

"What are you 12?" Barton snapped at him, and Tony was immediately embarrassed for the kid. He could tell Steve was about to intervene, when Clint continued, "go ask him yourself." The kid smiled back at his CO and walked slowly towards Steve politely asking if he would sign the Kevlar vest the scary looking dog was wearing. Rogers smiled back but his eyes looked sad.

"What's your name, son?" Steve asked him quietly.

"Sander, sir, and this Max," he proudly pet the dog as he handed Rogers a Sharpie.

"Where are you from, soldier?"

"I'm from McAlister, OK, sir," the kid beamed back with the same awe in his eyes Coulson used to have. Tony waited his turn but the nit never took his eyes off Steve. Apparently to the twerp, a gaudy shield was more impressive than cutting edge technology. "You've probably never heard of it. There isn't really anything there other than some prisons and a speed trap." Tony hadn't heard of it either but to be fair he thought that with the exception of Chicago pizza, there was nothing but a waste land between New York and LA.

"Do you enjoy your work here; do you like your CO?"

"Oh yes, sir," the boy grinned. "Captain Pierce is tough but fair and he treats Max like he's one of the gang. He never asks us to do anything he wouldn't do and he makes sure we get R&R when we need it. He even got a new tug toy for Max on for his birthday.  Even Beachhead said he was the first officer he'd met that was worth his feed. My only complaint is that he's a Steelers fan." That threw Tony for a bit of a loop. He had never once witness Clint even remotely paying attention to a football game much less being a fan of a particular team. Now Coulson had been a Steelers nut. He had had an autographed helmet in his office and everything. Steve just smiled at the kid's eagerness as realization settled on Tony. Pierce was Clint's impersonation of Phil. It stuck in his craw that Barton would do that. It seemed disrespectful and beyond rude to mimic the fallen hero, even down to his favorite sports team.

Tony's attention was drawn away from them towards well dressed man talking loudly and a veiled women yelling at Clint and the other solider. The soldier offered Barton some gum, his movements jerky and nervous. Clint accepted the gum and started chewing before even acknowledging the shouting couple. "What are those hajis so worked up about?" he asked the man, a sergeant with a name tag that read Ellison and a badge with an exploding bomb. He also didn't miss the way Rhodey's lip curled at the term "haji."

"You're the one that speaks Arabic, sir," the man answered.

"Yeah but do you think if I ignore them, they'll think I don't and go away?" Clint asked, finally taking off his sunglasses but squinting his eyes. Tony didn't remember Hawkeye having that many crow's feet.

"Doubtful, sir, since you talked to them in said language this morning." Ellison returned with a smirk, "but from what I can tell from the guy that speaks English, they are mad about Corporal Max."

"Well goddamn it then, I guess I need to turn around and see what they want," he finally turned to them, tucking his glasses into one of the bazillion pockets he had. "Is there a problem?"

The woman launched into a tirade Tony couldn't understand beyond her gesturing at the dog with a snort of disgust. The gentile looking man finally answered, "these men insisted we allow that filthy animal in here, into the rooms, the kitchen. It's disgusting! What are you going to do about this?"

"Nothing," Pierce answered.

"What do you mean nothing? We were asked to accommodate you and your people but were never told about dirty animals being present. This goes against,"

Clint put his hand up and cut the man off. "First off, shut the hell up. Second, we both know how this is going to end so take a minute to think whether you want to waste both our times and what little patience I have left," The man stopped for a moment but seemed to gather his courage.

"This is unacceptable. We cater to Muslim as well as foreign clients and we cannot have a dog wondering around our building and restaurant,"

The woman started screeching again until Barton barked something at her in Arabic that made her cringe but finally quiet down. Then he pulled his lips back, showing his teeth in a sick approximation of a smile. If it was meant to put them at ease it did the exact opposite, setting even Tony's nerves on edge. "I got it najis, unclean, whatever. I don't give a shit. I'm going to tell you how this is going to play out. You are going to move and give these guest an excellent stay or I am going to list you as a suspected terrorist and before you can even pack I'll be back here with a bag over face and a knock to the back of the head and you wake up at Guantanamo Bay and spend the next 8 months getting ass fucked by a cattle prod," he finished to snorts from his men an embarrassed look from Steve, and a shocked look by the couple.

"This isn't fair," the man threatened but moved to the side as Clint pushed his way past.

"Write your fucking Congress man," he snarked and flipped the man off as he walked by, heading towards the elevators. Tony followed, too stunned to do anything else. Hawkeye's somewhat tetchy attitude towards Middle Eastern cuisine and culture aside, Pierce acted nothing like Clint. Barton would have gnawed off his own arm before causing that much of a scene. He always left that to Natahsa. Nor had he ever once heard Clint actually threaten someone, again that was Natasha's forte. Hawkeye was the consummate ambush predator, he never warned before he attacked and he never attacked unless he planned to kill.

Once in the elevator, he could hear Rhodey breathing loudly through his nose, clearly fuming. There was an explosion immanent as his buddy fancied himself the arbiter of military relations with civilians. "Captain, you do realize what you did down there was handled very poorly. Threatening them, using derogatory terms, disregarding their religion."

"Yeah, I know, I just don't care," Pierce answered, seeming more interested in chewing his gum than listening to Rhodes.

"That is not appropriate conduct, there are regulations" Rhodes continued. Pierce was hitting on almost all of Rhodey's preconceived pet peeves about the Army, ill tempered, stupid, racist, warmongering, white trash. But in Rhodey's defense, even Clint could be described as a cantankerous, dumb, redneck, and occasionally borderline prejudice against Middle Easterners. However, he would never claim Barton as a warmonger. If anything he was over critical about sending US troops into action.

"Whatever, Pogue. It's easy to keep that view when you never leave base unless you're twenty thousand feet in the air. A lot harder to do it, when you're down in the shit every day." Pierce answered. Tony had to think of him as Pierce because he just didn't seem like Clint at all.

"I guess you have and N word you would like to call me," Rhodes moved to stand in front of the other man.

"Yes, nuisance," Barton answered and shoulder checked him out of the way to get through the opening doors fist. They were met by a black mass detaching from the wall, making his heart leap and both Natasha and Clint draw their guns. Even Steve jumped but Tony noticed that Hawkeye and Black Widow's breathing never changed, not even with that much of a fright. It was almost creepy how neither of them ever seemed to startle.

"I see your diplomatic skills are as keen as ever, but then again I guess I don't pay you to be a diplomat," Fury smirked as he ushered the Avengers into a room, minus Rhodes and Pepper.

Once the door was closed, Clint's entire demeanor changed from hardnosed, sneering Captain, to exhausted agent. It was shocking to witness and made Tony's stomach hurt to see the blank, listless stare he met them all with. He looked around, wondering if he was the only one that had noticed, Natasha was ignoring them, standing directly in front of the AC vent but he met Steve's eyes and knew the older man had noticed too. Fury, sadly, gave nothing away as he studied his asset.

"Well?" Fury looked somewhat impatient and Clint immediately stood up straight with his hands behind his back and his feet shoulder with apart.

"Security for tomorrow is ready, only fobbits and people new from the States will be working it and no one with any connections to any of the brass. I leaked out 4 different locations Stark would be staying to see if any of them will be hit. I have the hotels reserved for Damascus. Romanov will stay with them, I'll bivouac with my men, about 2 miles away, sir," he finished, eyes trained on Fury.

"I don't like you being that far away but I guess it can't be helped," the one eyed man sighed and turned to walk out of the room, motioning the others to follow him. Clint paid them virtually no mind and followed his CO, even has Natasha finally came over and gave both him and Steve big hugs. The Director led them into a dining room with a full spread of food and drink that looked amazing, even to his hungover self. Pepper and Rhodes were waiting for them, looking as if they had freshened up.

The meal was awkward to say the least. Natasha seemed happy enough to see them but subdued in front of Fury and clearly not revealing her real identity to Rhodes. Pepper was uncomfortable, not knowing what she could or could not say. Steve seemed depressed and kept stealing glances at their two wayward predators. Fury watched everything with a knowing eye, even as Tony picked at his food and wished the whole thing was over. Rhodey glared at Barton, who completely ignored him and mechanically ate his food, without even taking off his gloves or body armor. Their resident sniper didn't make a sound other than a few mumbled 'yes, sir, no, sirs' to Fury. But worse than the fact that Clint barely made any noise, was the blank look on his face, he looked half way between deranged and comatose, the way his eyes seemed to never actually focus on anything. It didn't help either that more than once; Tony thought he was going to fall asleep at the table, elbow resting on his rifle.

As they all finished up, Stark was about to  _suggest_ that Clint go get some sleep, when the man rose, slinging his gun over his shoulder. "I need to get back to base," he headed towards the door then stopped and turned to Rogers. "The transport will be here for you at oh eight hundred, don't be late. I officially won't be guarding you so you won't see me. I'll pick you up to head into Syria at 0600 on Saturday. Have your gear packed but don't come down until I get here."

"Ok, we'll be ready," Steve smiled at Hawkeye, who ignored him and turned to Natasha.

"You coming?" he asked as he reached the door. She gave him a  _you must be joking_ look and he sighed, "sorry, I forgot, air conditioning." She waved at him, as he left and Fury just smiled.

"You do love your creature comforts don't you?" he questioned his agent as he too rose and reached into a small fridge. "By the way, a gift from Agent Barton, he asked that I bring it with me, when I showed up," he handed her a bottle of heavily chilled, top-shelf, Russian vodka. "He figured you would be jonesing for some by now."

"He's such a Romantic," she joked and immediately set out shot glasses for everyone. She handed them out then held up her glass with a call of "za vas" then downed it. A smile of pure, almost inappropriate, ecstasy came across her face as she poured another shot. Rhodey and Pepper declined, claiming fatigue, though Tony had no doubt they were just giving the 3 some space.

After 4 more shots, she leaned back and propped her feet up on the chair beside her, untying her hair. She looked as loose and relaxed and Tony felt. He didn't trust it one bit. Poor Steve still seemed uptight but then again, he couldn't physically get drunk. They proceeded to fill her in on all the gossip around the Stark tower from Gunnarson rearranging Clint's ammo wracks to Morse's penchant for not wearing a bra. Once all the joking was aside, Roger's started in on the unpleasant topic of Barton and the mission

"He looks tired," Rogers started and Tony suspected it was the understatement of the year.

"He's exhausted and burnt out but they're close," she defended, staring at the ceiling.

"How close, how much longer?" Tony blurted out. He wanted his friends, his family back together.

"I don't know. Gator thinks there is going to be a big black market meeting in Syria on Sunday. There's a good chance our targets will be there or someone there can lead us back to them." She defended.

"Who's Gator?" Steve asked.

"Gator is one of Clint's squad mates, his real squad. He usually acts as Clint's spotter unless they have to go in with the assault team," she answered and Tony guessed she didn't mean one of the people they had met today. He was a bit fuzzy on the particulars of whom Barton actually worked for and where he technically reported. The most he had ever gotten out of the man on the subject was that his unit was based at Fort Bragg but he had never told him what unit. Rhodey had once called him a "snake eater" before he even knew who he was, because he wore neither rank or unit insignia nor name tags on his uniform. All Tony had been able to figure out was that he was in the Army and some sort of super secret Special Forces or something.

"Anyway," Natasha continued, "bringing you here, Stark, will force their hand. Clint purposely gave out four different false scenarios on your location, so depending on which hotel is hit, we'll be able to narrow down the leak. After that, it shouldn't be too hard to track them down."

"You've have four months and haven't managed to," Tony snarked.

She glared at him and Steve drew back both their attentions, "Natasha, I understand the needs of the mission, but I'm concerned about Barton. He looked rough and wasn't acting like himself."

"Of course he wasn't, he was acting like Pierce," she blew off his concern.

"Why did he bother once his men were gone," Steve countered.

"Because Rhodes was there. Rhodes has seen him seven, maybe eight times using seven or eight different names, but has never really been introduced to him. It was obvious that he didn't recognize Clint so Clint stayed in character. It just makes things easier that way."

"Speaking of characters," Tony groused, "does he get a jolly good laugh out of making fun of Coulson like that?"

"He isn't making fun of anyone, Stark," she snapped at him. "He's used Pierce for years, Squawks actually came up with the character and gave him his own home town. Clint's been to central Pennsylvania enough times with Phil to know his way around and to mimic the accent. It was all done very deliberately and with no little amount of inside jokes between the two of them. Come on, Coulson named Clint's alter ego Captain Benjamin F. Pierce for god sake."

"Why is that a joke?" Steve seemed confused, defusing some of Tony's ire. In a way, he realized that he was being a brat about his desire to protect Phil's memory. He was jealous and hurt by others that knew him better and the obvious friendship between Coulson and Barton really gnawed at his gut, especially when he thought back to Phil's funeral. Everyone from himself to Steve to even Hill were in tears, but Barton was dry eyed and stone faced through the entire thing. You would have thought he was standing through a particularly boring speech for all the emotion he showed during the service.  This was of course before he realized that Hawkeye was pretty much incapable of showing emotion.  And after all that, he was the one that gave the flag to Phil's family. Clint was the one that got his shoulder gently squeezed by General Coulson, the one Coulson's sisters clung too, the one allowed to clear out Phil's office, when Tony thought it should have been him.

Natasha laughed then explained. "Captain Benjamin Franklin Pierce was a character on a show called M.A.S.H. that went by the nickname Hawkeye. Both of them could sit there for hours watching reruns of that show." She smiled sadly. "I still remember Squawks buying the entire series after Clint was shot in Afghanistan and making me watch it with them. Poor Hawkeye spent most of the time coughing, puking, and drooling on himself because he was so drugged out of his gourd he thought shoelaces were the height of hilarity."

"I see, but tell me this, is it worth leaving him here as long as it takes to find these people knowing what it is clearly doing to him?" Rogers asked her point blank.

"No, but I told you that from the beginning. However, since we've started this mission, we'll finish it." she answered him, not even attempting to spare Tony's feelings.

"I think I should talk to Fury about pulling him out," Roger said matter of factly.

"No," she answered in the same tone, "that is no one's call except for me and Clint. If he wants to finish then we'll finish. Neither of you have any right to come over here after 4 months and comment on the state of things," she snapped at him.

"Look, Natasha," Tony started, not sure what to say. "we're just worried about you two," he finished lamely.

"Then you should have listened to me, when I said we didn't want this mission," she fumed. "You two don't know shit about us or the work we do and therefore should keep your mouths shut. You two looked down on us, when we said 'no' now you feel guilty because exactly what I warned you about is happening? You didn't have our backs when we asked for your help, so I have zero trust that you'll have them now. Clint and I will successfully complete this mission and we will guard each other and you two can stay the hell out of it," she snapped then stormed off to god knew where.

They sat in silence for a moment before Tony started, "I don't think she liked us telling her what was best for her partner." He wondered how much of her outburst was the drink versus genuine anger at them for not listening to her counsel. But then again, there was always the chance with Natasha that she was being territorial about Clint. She had more than once shown it wasn't just other women she didn't want him getting close to.

"You think?" Steve snapped at him and Tony decided it was time to go find Pepper and a soft bed to sleep on.

**Thursday August 9** **th** **10:19 am US Army Base Baghdad, Iraq**

Gator spied his target leaning against one of the support posts, watching the spectacle on the stage. He couldn't believe his luck that Stark walked right into his camp. He sauntered up and leaned on the opposite side of the post. Without a word, a green, camouflage zippo lighter was connected with the cigarette dangling from his lips. The two stood in silence as the soldiers in front of them broke into a chorus of cheers as Captain America used his shield to redirect Iron Man's blast and hit a target.

"You enjoying the show?" Gator finally asked. After knowing Clint for so many years, he figured if he hadn't said anything yet he wasn't going to.

"Immensely," he deadpanned as he exhaled smoke. Barton liked Winstons, while he was more of a Marlboro Red man himself. He raised his eyebrow at his friend and Clint continued. "These people saved the world from an alien invasion and this is what they are reduced to now. I find it quite humorous."

"You aren't laughing?"

"No I am not," Clint answered though there might have been an undercurrent of mirth in his voice. Or it might just be Gator's imagination. Fuck, this was so much harder than it needed to be. Why of all the people in the world did the universe have to kick him in the balls and send Barton to stop him? He and Clint were close, at least as close as the kid let people get to him. And he really needed to stop thinking of him as a kid.

Gator wasn't stupid, he had figured out a few things about his friend over the years. Though Barton never said as much, he figured he must not have a family. He never received letters and never went anywhere on leave. The Army had been his home, at least until he had been transferred to SHIELD. He also suspected that something pretty bad must have happened to him to make him so distrustful of people. Gator still remembered how at first Barton would flinch if you lifted your hands up around him and how he used to keep a stash of food in the barracks regardless of it being against regulations. No, Gator wasn't part of the Psych team, but even he could tell the obvious signs of someone that had been beaten and had grown up worrying about having enough food. Though he was steadier now than he had been when they had first met and Barton had barely been 21 with eyes that made him look 90. He still remembered it had taken 2 months before Clint would talk to him and another 2 before he would joke.

All those things should have made him dislike Barton but it was the opposite. Like gentling a horse to your hand, you felt like you had a bond with them. And he felt like he had a bond with Barton. Hell, he had made the guy his daughter's Godfather after Clint had nursed him back to health as the two of them spent 6 weeks rotting in an Iranian military prison. To this day, he still wasn't quite sure how they had managed to make it out of that one alive. That was why lying to him was so hard. They had been through too much together and he felt like he owed his friend, his teammate, his fucking brother, honesty but at the same time he loved Hazine and the child she carried. He had to find a way to make a comfortable life for them and Clint's investigation was putting a serious damper on his budding arms business.

"So when is your team heading back out?" Clint's unit had been on base for 5 days. It was the longest since he had arrived.

"Day after tomorrow. I need to see these brightly dressed 'heroes' back to the Four Seasons and then escort them into Syria for some god unknown reason," Barton groused and he smiled. Baby sitting VIPs had never been one of Hawkeye's favorite assignments but he was so good at it he always got stuck doing it. As the saying goes, it takes a thief to catch a thief, well it takes an assassin to stop an assassin and Hawkeye was one of the world's best assassins. Even he was occasionally disturbed by how robotically efficient Hawkeye could be about such things. But more importantly, Clint had let slip where they were staying. If he played his cards right, he could snatch Stark from his hotel and move him across the border before anyone noticed. If not, he would have to wait till they went into Syria. It would be harder to get him then, knowing Barton would be guarding him.

"They let you in the Four Seasons?" he joked, sliding his eyes sideways.

"Through the servant's entrance," he shot back, without missing a beat and Gator grinned at him. The Four Seasons would be easy to get into, he'd do it tonight.

**Sunday August 12** **th** **4:13pm Damascus, Syria**

Clint concentrated on keeping the civilians under cover as his men tried to take out the snipers. It was clear they were being pushed towards plaza and he was hell bent on preventing it. The open plaza was a kill-box with no cover and he could already hear people fleeing it along with a few dead bodies. He saw Steve use is his shield to protect Tony and Lt. Col Rhodes. From the angle the bullet came, he traced back the trajectory, finding the bastard that had fired. He left his cover to take the shot, ending one of the 3 snipers plaguing them. He told them it wasn't safe to bring Stark here. Why did no one listen to him?

He dropped back down, just as Beachhead came skidding in beside him, breathing hard and looking worried, which in turn worried Clint. Sneeden was pretty much unflappable about pretty much everything related to combat. "Sir, we have a situation in the plaza," he panted.

"What kind of situation, because I sort of have one here too," there was another shot that harmlessly connected above him, embedding in the wall. This didn't add up, a sniper would have to be that bad on purpose. This dude hadn't hit anything yet.

"A situation that EOD says they won't touch with a 10 foot pole," that got his interest. "Go, sir, I'll cover you and the VIPs." Clint nodded and gave a 3 count before running towards the plaza, Natasha hot on his heels. He rounded the corner and came to a dead stop before moving into the square. In the center stood 6 children varying in ages from 4-10, all shackled down with wires threaded through their hands and feet like a sick version of a stigmata. The jumble of wires was then woven into 6 different bombs.

"Holy shit," he breathed as Tasha nearly crashed into him. Behind him the sounds of battle immediately stopped. The last sniper had either been killed or given up. he wasn't an idiot though.  He tossed hat into the square and waited for the shot, it didn't come.  He barely registered that the VIPs were nearly behind him. "Ellison," he shouted for his EOD tech.

"Sir," the man appeared looking wild eyed and jittery. Ellison was good but he was young and easily rattled until he put on the suit. Clint gave him a questioning look and the man spilled his guts. "I've never seen anything like it. It's that same bomb maker, the one with the triple switches but I can't even tell what type of weapons those are and the kids," he stopped, stuttering in horror then collecting himself. "There's a timer, I can't disarm those in time." He looked at his CO for reassurance, for forgiveness.

"Good job, Sergeant. Start moving everyone back," he said as he walked up to the bombs to inspect, Natasha close behind him.

As he approached, Rogers, Stark, Potts, and Rhodes followed. Pepper's gasp was unmistakable followed by "Oh my god," by Rogers, nothing from Stark, and "shit," from Rhodes.

Clint tuned them out and concentrated on the jumble of wires creating a mass of arcs and closed circuits in front of him. They were all triple switched and would have to be cut in a certain sequence to not blow them all up. Maybe he should just let them all blow. He examined the first in the chain, an electrified shrapnel bomb. Second was chemical incendiary, he had seen firsthand what the Napalm B derivative in those could do. Shackled in place as they burned to death from chemical fire that can't be stopped, was no way for a child to die. Third was a concussion missile, it was angled to detonate upward. Past that it didn't matter, the first 3 would kill everything within 200 feet. He fingered the wires and one of the children whimpered.

He turned to Romanov and motioned for his men to move the VIPs to a safe distance, Stark balked but Clint ignored him. He watched their back as he looked at her, "There's no way," he said, and felt his stomach drop as he admitted defeat. "There isn't enough time, I can't," he stuttered and she looked into his eyes and he knew she understood. As soon as he saw that, his decision was made, he took a deep breath and raised his head, turning back to the children. He wouldn't meet Stark's eyes, shocked and accusing, or Pepper's frightened and traumatized, or the worst, Steve's no doubt a combination of indignation and disappointment. He only looked into Tasha's, where he found acceptance, understanding.

He crouched in front of the oldest, smiling, "hello, my name's Hawkeye, what's yours?" he asked in Arabic, keeping an eye on the timer, 178 seconds and counting.

"Ali, and hawks have yellow eyes, not blue so why would they say you have eyes like a hawk?" the child tried to reach out to touch Clint's face but his hands were restricted by the wires.

He smiled again not blaming the child for the question. In Arabic his call sign could only be translated as 'eyes of a hawk.' "Because I like to watch things from high places," he explained. "Look Ali, I'm going to get you guys out of here, ok."

"So we can go home?" his eyes lit up as did the other kids. He felt like throwing up. But he savagely pushed the feeling away. He knew his choice was right and little things like emotions played no part in warfare.

"Yeah, so you can go home," he stood up doing his best to keep his voice steady and his tone friendly. "But I need you to do me a favor, I need you all to close your eyes," he asked, knowing he couldn't look them in the eyes anymore than he could Tony, Pepper, or Steve. These kids were going to die there was no way around that, the question was would he leave them to a agonizing death by chemical burns or would he make it quick and painless. He hadn't been able to catch these people, the least he could do was make sure these innocent children didn't suffer anymore. When they all had closed their eyes, he drew his pistol, fixing the silencer to the end.

"Thank you, sir," Ali smiled, turning his face to the sun and Clint fired.

He ignored the shocked screams of Tony and Pepper and jogged back behind the meager cover of the alley. He reached the cover and checked his watch. "Seven seconds to detonation," he yelled, watching his men immediately tuck themselves down, hands over their ears. He noticed Tony staring at him, looking lost. "Stark, get your ass under cover unless you want to lose it," he shouted, and Steve pulled Tony down, covering his and Pepper's body with his own. That was the last thing he noticed before the fireworks started, and his nose was flooded with the smells of Napalm, ozone, and burning flesh. Fuck he hated the Middle East.

**Sunday August 12** **th** **4:27 pm, Damascus, Syria**

"Get these civilians out of here, and start tracking back to a warehouses or convoy trucks, I want witness and anyone with a cell phone within half a mile. Police all the brass and fish out all the shells, I want it tagged, every fucking piece. I don't care if you have to dig it out of a wall or dead body," he ordered, voice deathly controlled. His men seemed to respond, standing straighter and moving with a purpose. Tony was in too much shock to even know how to react, an Avenger, his teammate had just shot 6 civilians, 6 children, 6 people he should have saved. This wasn't right, this couldn't be right. Hawkeye was standoffish, quiet, and pretty much indifferent to most things but he wasn't a murderer, not like this.

He could feel Pepper shaking behind him and he wanted to comfort her but he couldn't, he just couldn't seem to make sense of any of this. Not understanding made him angry and there was only one person to take that anger out on. He threw a punch at Clint, "what the fuck, Bar," was as far as he got before Barton had knocked his fist to the side and had his hand around his wind pipe, cutting off his air supply. He clawed at the vice like grip, even as he knew it was pointless. Tony was good at hand to hand but he was not where near the same league as Barton and Romanov, he wouldn't budge Hawkeye without his suit.

"Shut the fuck up, Stark, and go back to the hotel and await further instructions. I don't have time or men to spare babysitting you and friends any longer." He was still so controlled, so even, so calm. Tony met his eyes but immediately looked away, it was looking into a blue screen on a computer. Nothing of Clint was there anymore, no humor, no sarcasm, no anger, just icy emptiness. This wasn't the guy that made awesome omelets, kept the mansion spotless, wore Eeyore pajamas, and jokingly corrected Tony's fighting stance. This person was a stranger to him. This person was a stone, cold killer.

"Captain Pierce, we need to just calm down and figure out what is going on and what to do next," Rhodey interrupted and Clint finally let go of him, even as Natasha moved in between the two of them. He wasn't sure if it was to defend Rhodey or Barton.

"Colonel, with all due respect, I don't see any airplanes around here, which means that is and Army op. So take your people and please unass my AO. Do I make myself clear?" Tony waited for his friend to explode, Rhodes was a MIT educated Lt. Colonel and Pierce was only a dumbass Army Captain, surely he wasn't going to be allowed to talk to him like that.

"You made yourself clear Captain, we'll get out of your way," he bobbed and shoved Tony and Pepper ahead of him, Steve following looking sick and lost. He understood now what Clint had meant, when he said Rogers couldn't pass for a soldier anymore. Steve never would have been able to make himself do that. But then again, Tony didn't know too many other people that could have. Natasha being the only other example he could think of.

He stopped and looked back as Natasha said something to Barton, that he couldn't catch then trotted after them. "Come on Tony, we need to get out of here. That guy has lost it. We need to get back so I can track down his CO and have him arrested. He's a psycho and should be in prison or a hospital somewhere, not in charge of this unit." Rhodey didn't know Pierce was actually Barton and an Avenger but it didn't change the fact his assessment might be right.

"No, you won't, Colonel Rhodes," Romanov caught up just in time to hear Rhodey's comments.

"Listen, Lt. Tokarev, I understand that he works with your CO and this probably isn't his fault. He may just be sick; PTSD does bad things to people, but."

"You understand nothing. You will go back to the hotel and stay with Stark and keep your fucking mouth shut! If I hear you say one more disparaging thing about him, I will personally slit your throat." She was right in his face, displaying all the emotion Barton seemed to lack and it scared Tony. He didn't know what she was capable of at this point, not when it came to protecting Hawkeye.

"Natasha, please," Pepper pleaded with her friend, she was shaking so hard she was clinging to Steve for support.

"Natasha, I thought her name was Natalie?" Rhodey questions, "I think it's about time you told me just what the hell is going on here, Tony." He dismissed the anxious looking soldiers that were with them, clearly reading that no one would speak plainly with them around.

"Fine, that's Agent Romanov of SHIELD, that guy back there was her partner, Agent Barton," Rhodey looked confused for a moment. Tony knew he knew those names and he could see the exact moment that it clicked that he was staring down Black Widow while she defended Hawkeye. He immediately backed up because he wasn't suicidal. "Now everyone knows each other, Romanov, you care to explain why hell, your other half just killed 6 kids in cold blood?" Tony shouted at her.

"They were mercy kills," she answered, once again composed, as mercurial as her partner was stoic.

"That's a cop out," Tony started, going toe to toe with her. He saw out of the corner of his eye, Steve handing Pepper over to Rhodey, in case he needed to intervene.

"How many Stark Missiles did he disarm before we came here?" she asked, but didn't give him time to answer. "Two hundred and six, he disarmed 206 of them and his fasted time was 1 minute and 23 seconds and that was when they still had overrides and were built to specs. There were 6 improvised ones out there with no override computers and he had 178 seconds to make a call. And make no mistake. He made the right one.

"The first one in the daisy chain was an electrified shrapnel bomb," she explained. It was one of his first inventions, it exploded and sprayed shrapnel that held an electric charge tuned to disrupt the human nervous system. It was like getting hit by frags and a tazer at the same time, very painful and rarely deadly. "The second was a fire bomb," another of his early works. It was a chemical incendiary that only burned organic tissue and didn't damage buildings. "There was a good chance those kids would still have been alive when they were set on fire and it wasn't the fast burning chemicals you use. It was Napalm," she let him think on that for a second and he almost couldn't breathe. "He hit everyone in the kill zone, straight through the brain stem. They were all dead before their brains could even register they had been shot. They were going to die anyway, Stark, he just made sure it was quick and painless."

He wanted to glare at her, wanted to scream and rage because she again rammed home that it was his fault, all of this was his fault. He had designed those things. It had been his mind that had come up with them, and it had been a game to him. The simulations like watching a video game and he had thought it was so cool. He used to smoke weed and take popcorn to them for fuck's sake! He hadn't understood what he had been creating but now he did and there was nothing he could do to take it back. More lives lost because of his arrogance and his desire to outshine his father.

He felt bile rise in his throat and before he knew what was happening, he was bent over retching. Romanov stared at him dispassionately. How could they be so calm when he was being ripped apart? He felt an arm snake around him and heard Steve whisper to him, "it's ok, Tony, I've got you." He was ridiculously appreciative because his knees felt like jelly but at the same time, he wanted to shove the super soldier away, because he didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve compassion after all the lives he had taken. He was, in a way, so much worse than Barton or Romanov, who fought for their countries and later for each other. They had the courage to stare their victims in the eyes, Barton through a scope and Natasha face to face. They accepted what they did and allowed it to touch them, affect them. That was why they were the way they were, because they lived with the things they had done every day. He hadn't even been a fighter, he just designed death from a far, never even caring what his work did and all because he wanted to make his daddy proud. He had never really owned up to the things he had done, never let it change who he was, not on the inside. On the inside he was still just as selfish and spoilt as he had always been. The fact that Rogers was with him, making him feel better, rather than helping Barton was evidence enough of that.

He gagged again, and heard Natasha, "take care of them, Rogers, I'm going to go back to Hawkeye," she sounded edgy.

"I will," she turned to leave but his voice stopped her, "Romanov, do you think?" he trailed off.

"I don't know, but I don't want to leave him alone," she answered, understanding his unspoken question. He heaved again, this mission was his fault. His teammates were suffering because he could deal death better than anyone. His arrogance, his fault this was happening.

"Go but keep your com on. I'm going to call Fury, I want Barton out of here." He sounded serious.

"I will but wait, we're close. I could see it in his eyes. And all of this can't be for nothing," she called then took off back towards her partner.

**Sunday August 12** **th** **4:50 pm, Damascus, Syria**

Natasha loped back towards the bomb site, deftly side stepping police and fireman trying to cordon off the area. She skidded up to Clint, as he stood in the middle of the chaos,dexterously rolling something between his nimble fingers. He met her eyes as she approached and she could see his singular focus. Everything except fulfilling the mission was pushed aside as unnecessary for now. It was the only way they could continue, either one of them because if he broke down now, so would she. This was Hawkeye at his most dangerous, most lethal, and most natural. This was the man that had guarded her back for 8 years, not letting anyone or anything get to her and she respected the hell out of him this way.

Steve could go fuck himself. She bit her lip to stop from sneering. She realized she was being petty and stupidly jealous that Rogers was worried about Hawkeye. It never bothered her when it was Coulson fretting alongside her but for some reason Steve's concern was grating on her nerves. Maybe it was because Phil understood Clint and what it meant to do this type of dirty work, while Steve had never really gotten dirty in his life. Steve's innocence therefore made him seem judgemental, like he was looking down on them for the choices they had made. She didn't know and it didn't matter, she wouldn't let him pull Clint from this. She would let him finish it.

"We managed to chase down one of the snipers. They were trying to leave with the body of the one I hit. We didn't stop them but have the imaging team tracking them by satellite," he explained. She wondered why he didn't just drag them in for questioning. But he continued by tossing whatever he was playing with at her. She caught it and examined it. It was a ceramic bullet, made to be fired out of a custom fabricated sniper rifle with a titanium, double grooved barrel.

She hooked her finger over the barrel of Clint's riffle and sniffed it. Her memory had been clear; he hadn't fired it since he had last cleaned it in Baghdad. "Where did you get it?"

"I dug it out of the wall above my position in the alley," he answered.

"I'll check with Hill to make sure your other rifle is still in the armory on the helicarrier, and have SHIELD run a ballistics match on this," she told him, her mind working out the details. If his secondary rifle was still on the helicarrier that meant only one thing, Gator or at least his gun had fired that bullet.

"We need to get back to Baghdad," he noted, then mumbled, "it's not safe here, we need to get them back on base or in hiding." She reached out to shake him, get him to focus but he did it himself, "take that and meet up with Stark and Rogers, get them ready to bug out in 15. I'll handle the locals and we'll rendezvous at the hotel." She nodded and head back towards the other Avengers as he collected his men.

No words could describe how much she wanted this over with because no words could describe what had just happened. She knew he had made the right choice. She would have done the same thing and if there was a god, she hoped he knew that. She of all people knew what it felt like to kill children and it was a stain that never left you, no matter how much good you did. She should have taken the gun from him and done it herself, damning the consequences to their covers but she hadn't. All she could do now was help him get these bastards and pick up the pieces. And she knew he would be in pieces, when he had time to let himself feel again, even if he didn't let it show because deep down under Hawkeye and Agent Barton, Clint was a nice person who did whatever was necessary for his country.

TBC

 


	7. Boom!

 

 

 

**Into the Fire Chapter 6: Boom!**

**Sunday August 12** **th** **7:19 pm, US Army Base Baghdad, Iraq**

Clint leaned back in his chair and downed the rest of his bottle of water. He should probably make sure the other Avengers had rehydrated but frankly he couldn't care. He looked across the hanger SHIELD had taken over on base, where they sat huddled together looking shell shocked. ' _Welcome to my fucking world_ ,' he wanted to tell them but stayed away. The others were giving him a wide berth, even as his own men took turns lounging outside in the shade and milling around him in an almost protective fashion. He supposed he should be flattered.

He leaned back forward and bolted down the rest of his chow, wondering if he had time to head to his bunk for a nap before the SHIELD techs finished testing the bullets he brought back. Leave it to SHIELD to have a mobile ballistics lab. He tipped his head forward and closed his eyes, they felt gritty and dry from exhaustion. How long had it been since he had slept, nearly 3 day? More than anything he wanted a cool, quiet, place he could rest, just for a little while, just long enough to sort out what had happened earlier.

Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't made of stone. Killing children was not an everyday occurrence for him, especially if they weren't shooting back, and it sort of had him a bit off balance. But not as off balance as finding that ceramic slug. Hill had confirmed his secondary rifle was safely tucked on the helicarrier, which meant there was only one other gun that could have fired it and that gun belonged to Gator. There had to be another explanation, there just had to. There was plenty of evidence that the leak could be his squad mate, but he kept shying away from the thought. There was plenty of evidence that it could be the general, the chief of logistics, or Stark himself. But where else did the bullet come from? He wanted to bang his head on the table to make the thoughts stop running around in his brain. They were too loud, everything was too bright, too hot, and too loud. He just wanted quiet, quiet and dark so he could stop for a minute. He didn't need long, just for an hour, 30 minutes, hell he would settle for 60 fucking seconds of peace.

He lit a cigarette and let it dangle between his lips in between drags. He wondered what he looked like to everyone else. Did his men understand what he had done and why he had done it, or did they think he went off the deep-end and started killing civilians. He wondered if half of them would care if he had? Those kids were  _hajis, ragheads_ , they weren't paid to care what happened to the enemy and after you were here long enough anyone that wasn't one of us was one of them and they were all enemies. It made going back to New York a little tough to adjust too; it sort of made him want to go to a roof top and start shooting falafel vendors. They were good men, all of them but they were soldiers, paid to do what they were told and not worry about anything else. He missed when he didn't worry about anything else. Now he couldn't stop worrying about everything else.

He tipped his chair back on two legs and inhaled, smoke hitting the back of his throat and immediately drying his mouth out and calming his nerves. He wondered what Fury thought of him, leaned back in his chair and sunglasses in place, looking as relaxed as if he was waiting for a movie to start. Fury didn't care about his wellbeing anymore than he had when he was captured by Loki. If he got in the way or couldn't perform his job he would be discarded or eliminated. Fury was the easiest to understand. He was all cost benefit and as long as Clint didn't cost them anything he was considered a benefit. He needed to concentrate on not costing them anything and not thinking about Ali's smile as he turned his face to the sun.

FUCK! He inhaled again. He needed something to do. He wished there was a range here. He would give his left nut for his bow, a range, and some fucking quiet. But instead he heard transports rolling past, planes over head, and the muffled whispers of his probably soon to be former teammates. What did the Avengers think of him now? He had a hard time counting himself among them, even before this. He wasn't super and he certainly was no hero. And what was he now? Well he supposed he was the same thing he had always been, a government weapon, an Army issue killer, a murder; just now they realized it too. Because really, would Stark have killed that little girl with her hair in pigtails and dimples on her face and  _JESUS FUCKING CHRIST HE NEEDED TO QUIT THINKING ABOUT THAT_! It had nothing to do with the mission and he needed to finish his mission. And if he didn't quit thinking about it, he was going to lose it. " _Sir, I think Hawkeye has lost his mind," "why?" "he's smiling, sir."_

He snuffed his finished cigarette out with his fingers. They were so callused from his bow and gymnastics that he could touch the embers and not burn himself. Yeah, there was something he could do that Captain fucking America couldn't do better. But that wasn't fair, there were a lot of things he could do better. He could lie, he could cheat, he could kill, better than Steve. Hell, he could do it better than Stark too. Haha, he was better than Tony Stark. But Tony Stark would have been smart enough to find a way to defuse those bombs in 178 seconds and Clint Barton hadn't been. And he hadn't been willing to risk Stark trying and failing but Tony wouldn't have blinked at risking Clint, so maybe Tony was better than him anyway.

Pepper was crying, he could see her shoulders shaking as he leaned against Tony. Rhodes was rubbing her shoulder. He wished they would leave, go back to their pretty world, with their clear cut rules. Go back to worrying about getting Stark to meetings on time and Steve clothes from this century, and Bruce the type of Twizzlers he liked. He wished they would go away and let him slink back into the shadows where he belonged because he knew he couldn't be like them, he couldn't be clean and shining because there was too much blood and gun powder on his hands. It was ground into his nails and the creases of his skin. So deep nothing ever cleaned it off. The smell of gun oil, blood, and death clung to him no matter what he did. " _Out, out, damn spot_ ," if only it was just one spot but all the spots merged together till everything was red and black and he gave up trying to clean it. It was easier to just ignore it.

That was one of the funniest things about their whole team. They all feared Natasha, and with good reason, she was amazing and could kill Stark or maybe even Rogers if pressed. But she wasn't the one that SHIELD gave a special arrow that could take down the Hulk, or a dart that could drop Rogers, or even a copy of the Ironman suite so Clint would know where to shoot to kill him. No, that was quiet, little Hawkeye that was trusted in policing their team to do their jobs or take them out if they didn't. He wondered if Tasha was charged with stopping him, if he went rogue. Black Widow's reputation was fearsome, but between the two of them his body count far out stripped hers by orders of magnitude. He had killed so many people in the name of Uncle Fucking Sam that he couldn't even remember them anymore. And soon he knew those kids would be mostly forgotten and that should make him feel guilty but it didn't. It just made him tired. That had been the thing with Loki that should have made him sick. Loki didn't take over his mind so much as give him missions and the desire to fulfill them. In a way, it was no different than what Coulson, Fury, Hill, and his Delta Force leaders did to him.

"Hawkeye," Fury called him and he stood to meet Natasha and the Director as they walked towards him. He shooed Beachhead away so they could talk in some relative privacy, or at least as much privacy as you could get in a giant hanger with a few crudely erected plastic walls.

"Sir?" he questioned. His throat was dry, he needed more water and less shouting.

"The ballistics report is in, the bullet was fired by rifle number 3," he said and Clint felt like he had been punched in the gut. It had been fired by Gator's gun. But maybe it hadn't been his friend that had fired it. Maybe someone stole the gun. "We also have satellite footage of what appears to be Sgt Singer exiting the van you tagged and entering a building in the Syrian Desert. He's carrying the same rifle," Fury explained and goddamn, didn't that just rain all over Clint's parade of denial.

"I see, sir," he answered to buy time. He needed time to process this, time and quiet. He just wanted some fucking quiet but he wouldn't get any not until the mission was over. "Don't send the MPs after him directly. Let me lead him away where we can ambush him. He's assault trained and if he decides to fight, it could get messy," he explained instead of curling into a ball like he wanted to.

"That won't be necessary," Fury pulled out an envelope and handed it to him. He noticed the seal of the Joint Chiefs of Staff on it. He opened it and his stomach fell to his feet, not that it had made it much higher than his knees since he saw those kids. For fuck sake, he had more important things to worry about than that right now, like his new orders. He read them 3 times and looked at his boss.

"Sir, are these for real?"

"Sitwell picked them up himself and I authenticated them. I was told to give them to you personally when the leak and the operation were found," Fury watched him with his one eye. It was dark and unreadable and picked up too damn much. And he didn't want to think about this, he wanted quiet and to sleep. He just wanted to fucking sleep. "Is there a problem, Hawkeye?" he asked, voice almost mocking.

"Sir, no, sir," he answered out of habit and wanted to stuff the words back in his mouth.  _Yes, there was a huge fucking problem with this and the universe in general!_ This was wrong, this was all wrong. Why were they making him do this? He wanted to walk out, tell them to fuck off and do it themselves.  _Please stop this ride, I don't feel well and I want to get off._ But he didn't. He was a soldier and soldiers followed orders and even though he didn't like these orders he would follow them. He wasn't the brains, he wasn't paid to think or contemplate the moral angles of a mission. He was paid to execute and he would earn his green this time around.

He handed them to Tasha and watched her read them and knew she had the same feeling he did upon seeing. There were only 3 lines: "No witnesses. No evidence. No survivors." He looked her in the eyes for a moment, just the briefest of meetings and found resolve in her blank stare. She didn't show him pity, no ' _oh my god you poor guy you have to kill your friend,_ ' because if she had, he might crack. If she gave him permission, he might just dissolve into a quivering puddle on the floor and have a nervous breakdown because he didn't want to do this. He didn't want Gator to be a traitor and he didn't want to kill the father of his Goddaughter. He didn't want to give the Avengers anymore reasons to think of him as a monster.  He didn't want Coulson's hero to be disappointed in him. 

She also didn't try to encourage him. Her eyes gave no sign of, " _buck up, sport, you killed Squawks and got over it, sort of at any rate. This should be a piece of cake. Now pull the dick out of your ass and stop acting like a weepy woman and do your job._ " If he saw that he would implode. But she would have been right. He needed to concentrate on the job and not on anything else. He needed to turn off the side that balked at taking Gator's life and he needed to see his friend as a mark. Gator wasn't Gator anymore. He wasn't the guy that had been assigned as Clint's spotter all those years ago and that spent the first 3 months of their acquaintance driving him up a bloody wall because he was loud and boisterous, making Clint go out and socialize with people, making him care about his teammates. He wasn't the friend that smiled at him and gave him a reason to keep fighting his way out of an Iranian prison, when they had been captured. He wasn't the brother that had placed a little girl in his arms and said, "that's your goddaughter, Hawk, if anything happens to me, you take care of her." He could no longer be those things because now all he could be was a Target. In a way it made him cringe how easy it was for him to turn off his guilty feelings over this now that he had a job to do.  _Idle hands are the devil's workshop,_ he supposed.

"Will we be assaulting the building or bombing it from the air?" he asked, easily switching into Hawkeye mode. He took solace in the ice that crept into his veins as he allowed his full focus to be the mission and the Target, not Gator, the Target.

"Assaulting," Fury answered him, eye still watching him like a specimen.

"Do we have schematics and accurate satellite footage of the surrounding area yet?"

"We do," Fury began to walk away, "it's over here." He and Tasha followed behind the maze of plastic walls. It reminded him of a mini version of the complex in New Mexico, when he had first had Thor in his sites. He stopped them in front of a table that looked like a giant iPad. There satellite feeds rolling on one side and the other had blue prints of a building, complete with thermal imaging of where all the people were. "The closest homes seem to be a 12 miles away. From what we can tell, this is an old munitions factory built in the 1960s, one floor, four doors and several halls and offices. The exterior his brick and the frame is metal. The biggest room appears to be the center where the majority of the fabrication probably takes place. So far there are about 51 heat signatures." Fury explained as he pointed to pictures or sections of the blue print.

Clint studied them for a moment, along with the footage of the surrounding area. "We'll have to use choppers to come in from the south west, that's our best bet of avoiding detection. These rocks and ridges will give us some good cover going in, if we go at night, even still we'll have to hoof it at least 3 or 4 miles so they don't hear us," traced his finger along the path with the most cover, already fully engaged in soldier mode. "I'll need a team of 10-15 for that large of building and that many rooms," he started to calculated the path they should take through the building memorizing the halls with the least amount of doors and the crosses with the smallest blind spots. They would need to round everyone up and either shoot them or blow them up. Since his orders said no evidence, incineration was their better choice. "What type of ordinance did you bring me?" he looked at Fury who seemed more relaxed than he had earlier.

"You really think I would come empty handed," the man smiled at him. "We have your standard C4 along with thermite and magnesium incendiaries."

Clint was pleased, C4 would bring the building down and the thermite and magnesium would ensure nothing living made it out of there. "We'll need someone on the team that can set them," he pointed to 3 spots in the large fabrication room, "we'll need to round up everyone here and set the mag bombs, here, here, and here," he pointed. "Then thermite facing in the middle of these 4 halls, that they the blasts should meet and clear out any stragglers," he explained then pointed to 8 points along the four exterior walls and the 4 largest interior walls. They would all be load bearing. That was what few knew about dumb, old Clint Barton, but he did have a degree in structural engineering. Phil had made him do it, nagging him and kicking him to finish it no matter how many times he told Squawks he was too stupid. But he had graduated, with a C- average, but still. This right here was the reason he went for structural engineering, so he would know how to blow up a building and destroy everything inside of it. And more selfishly, he had liked learning about the archer's paradox but that wasn't really structural. "The C4 goes here. That should melt and or kill everything and bring the building down," he explained.

"I'll take care of it," Natasha offered, surprising him. She knew very well how to set explosives, he had taught her quite a bit that even Red Room hadn't known but normally she didn't go on assault missions. They were handled by the military side of SHIELD not by the spies.  Spies were more expensive and less expendable than soldiers. 

"Are you sure you want to go?" he asked her, making certain this wasn't out of some misguided hope she could save the Target's life.

"I've been sitting on my ass doing nothing for almost five months. I'll do it," she explained and he accepted it.

"I'll need you to get the Target to come with us," he instructed her.

He could see the wheels in her brain spinning, trying to determine the best way to con a conman into following her. "How well does he know me?"

"Not well, probably not even by reputation. He doesn't even know your first name."

"I'll play up being worried about you. I'll say I'll feel safer if he goes with you to watch your back," she decided and he had no doubt she would do it. ' _Come to my parlor said the spider to fly._ ' He thought as he watched her saunter off to catch a Gator. Target, he meant target. How much of a pussy bitch would he be if he asked her to kill the Target for him?

**Sunday August 12** **th** **7:46 pm, US Army Base Baghdad, Iraq**

Tony watched Fury and Romanov talk to Barton about something and then the three of them disappear behind one of the "walls." He had a hard time considering them walls because they pretty much just looked like giant sheets of plastic separating off areas. He couldn't hear what they were saying but he could clearly see that they were pointing at things on a digital table. Normally he would be curious as to what was being discussed but he felt too worn down to worry about it. He was still reeling from earlier and so were the others. He hadn't been able to meet Clint's eyes since he had thrown a punch at him. Though, in Tony's defense, Barton has been staying as far away from them as humanly possible while all in the same hanger. Romanov had been with Fury. Roger's was ignoring him, tied up in his own breakdown at realizing that there was nothing honorable and patriotic about the types of war Barton fought. Rhodey was glaring at him, still angry that Tony had lied to him about Natasha and Clint, and Pepper, his sweet girl, was a wreck. She was curled up on a cot resting and he wished he could join her. He would have covered her up, if it weren't like 100 degrees in there.

He watched Natasha leave and come back with another soldier that moved in the same deceptively relaxed manner Hawkeye did. He was tall, maybe 6'1" with thick, dark hair, brown eyes, and scruff on his chin. He was sort of dressed like the others or at least was wearing camo pants but he lacked the heavy jacket and his scarf thing he had around his neck was brightly colored and looser than the other soldiers, whose were all green and brown and wound tightly around their necks. In a way, he even seemed to dress like Hawkeye, when Hawkeye disappeared for days at a time and came back covered in sand and stinking of sweat and when asked where he went his answer was always something like, 'to get milk.' Barton seemed to greet him enthusiastically, while the other army guys watched him warily. Tony almost got up to ask who he was, wondering if he was another SHIELD person but thought better of it, he didn't want to face Clint or Natasha right now. They stood huddled around the table, clearly planning something.

"Who is that guy?" Rhodey pulled him out of his hazy thoughts as he pointed at the unknown new element.

"No idea, Barton and Romanov seem to know him though I can't tell about Fury," he answered.

"I'm more concerned with what they are planning," Steve cut in, reminding him that the super soldier's ears were far more sensitive than his own.

"What can you hear?" Tony questioned.

"Not much. All I can tell is that they are know where the people from earlier are and they are planning an assault on the building."

"If they are going after them, then I want a piece," Tony felt himself perk up. Tony Stark may be an asset that needed to be protected but Ironman was no victim. Ironman could make those bastards pay.

"Agreed," Steve nodded and got up to talk with Fury, Tony and Rhodey followed, most definitely not having to scurry to keep up with the much taller man's strides. Everyone seemed to stop what they were doing, as they entered. "Fury," Roger's addressed him, ignoring the others for the moment. He was in Captain mode and went straight for the commanding officers.

"Did you need something, Rogers?" The director tilted his head, his expression pointless to look at.

"If you are going after the culprits, Tony and I will be coming with you," he stated and Fury's expression didn't change.

"I am too," Rhodes crossed his arms, unwilling to be left out. The unknown guy just raised his left eyebrow and looked at Clint.

"Are these the blueprints of the building they are hold up in?" Steve looked down at the schematics displayed on the table. "We should come in from the South, Ironman can go straight through these doors," he started, pointing at doors on the drawing.

"I thought we already had a plan," the stranger asked in a rolling southern accent, while smirking at them. He had dimples. He wasn't as good with accents as Clint was but if he had to guess, he would say southern Louisiana. Tony would almost say he were handsome, if there weren't such an air of danger around him. Sort like he felt when he saw Clint and didn't realize who he was.

"We do have a plan," Barton finally said, not looking at Steve.

"What is it?" Rogers asked and looked impatient. Tony could tell their leader was annoyed at having been left out of the strategy stage.

"The plan is, you stay here," Barton finally answered.

"We're coming with you," Steve crossed his arms and stared down Fury.

"Take them with you, Hawkeye, if nothing else, it will teach them to keep their nose out of SHIELD missions," Fury instructed but didn't leave.

"Sir, I don't think that is a good idea," Barton protested, looking mortified at the idea of them tagging along.

"You have your order, Major," Fury smirked at him.

"Yes, sir," he pointed a long hallway that ran perpendicular to the hall Steve wanted to enter through. "We're coming in from the west, we'll take this juncture then move left and right to clear out the shorter halls, then round up all the prisoners in the large chamber in the center." He explained quickly.

"We should go in through the south, a shorter hallway," Steve told him.

"No, the south has no cover for our approach and there are too many doors along the hall, too much of chance of someone coming in behind us," Clint corrected.

"The west is too long of a hall, we could get stuck in there." Cap argued.

"I gotta say, I agree with Hawk," the mystery man pointed to the short hallway Rogers wanted. "This is a shorter hall but there are too many points of entry and the doors face each other, too easy to trap us in a kill box. The longer hall offers us cover on 3 sides and a single point to defend. We stop at the juncture and hold it then we control the west half of the building," he explained. Steve glared at him. "With all due respect, Captain," he threw in, not sounding very respectful.

"We're going with my plan," Clint told them.

"Now wait," Rhodey stopped, wanting to throw in his two cents.

"Seriously?" the Southerner asked, scratching his head. "Guys, I know you're a superhero or some such shit. I used have underroos with your face on 'em, and the Pogue is a Lt. Colonel, but this is what Hawkeye and I do. This is our bread and butter. We get in, we do shit, and we get back out." He explained, "just another day on the farm," he held his fist out and Clint pounded it with his own.  He was suprised they couldn't hear Natasha's eye roll. 

"And how many bodies do you leave in your wake?" Tony asked, unable to help himself.

"How many do want?" he smiled and took out a cigarette, offering the pack to Barton, who took one and lit it. "So how is quitting going for you?" he asked, motioning at the cancer stick dangling from Hawkeye's mouth.

"Outstanding," Clint dead panned and the other man laughed. Clearly whoever he was, he was used to Hawkeyes rather sarcastic sense of humor.

"Who are you?" Rhodes asked.

"Oh, this is my friend slash spotter slash sometimes partner, Gator," Clint pointed at him and the man smiled again.

"And your rank and name?" Rhodey asked

"Gator," the man answered with a bit of steel in his voice and Tony suddenly noticed that like Barton, he wore no rank designation, no unit insignia, and no name tag.

"And how do you know Hawkeye? Are you part of SHIELD?" Tony asked

"No, I'm not SHIELD, I'm just plain, old Army," he answered with that same smirk on his face.

"And how do you know Agent Barton?" Steve tried.

"We sing together in the same boys' choir," he blew smoke in their direction and turned back to Clint. "Brother, I want to give you hand but I didn't sign up to follow a guy that wears star spangled jammies into battle. If I'm going with you, we're using your plan, 'cause even though you're a long-gunner, I trust you."

"We're using my plan," Clint answered, not really paying much attention to the clear tension between the Avengers and this new guy.

"Agent Barton," Steve started and Clint snapped at him.

"Rogers, I don't know what part of 'we are using my plan' is so hard for you to understand so I'll make it simple. This is my op, my plan, and you follow my rules or get the fuck out. This is being executed by SHIELD and DOD, neither of which you technically belong to. Your call sign may have the word Captain in it but you are neither active duty military, a commissioned officer, nor assault trained. And even, in the event you were, my real life oak leaves trump your made-up captain's bars." Steve looked like a puppy that had just been kicked. "If you do not want to do as you are told then leave and take Stark and Rhodes with you, otherwise, shut the fuck up and listen." Tony felt like he woke up on opposite day. Clint did not snap at people and he certainly did not snap at Rogers.

"I understand," Steve answered with the decided lack of 'sir.'

They spent the next few minutes going over the plan of attack, which there seemed to be some gaps in, like where Natasha was going to and what she was going to be doing; before Tony couldn't take the curiosity anymore at watching Hawkeye and this Gator person walk through lines of site, timing, and which weapons to bring, all the while joking with each other. Hawkeye actually smiled, it was fucking weird.

"So really, how do you two know each other," Tony asked, curious about Barton outside of the Avengers, though so far he hadn't liked what he had seen.

"Oh the Hawk and I go way back. When I first met him I thought he was mute, 'cause he never opened his damn mouth and potentially crazy because he spent most of his time sitting on the roof watching people. But then after we spent some time together in that Iranian Hotel, we developed and understanding," the man was as charming ad Barton was surly.

"Ah I remember that. They had such customized services," Clint looked wistful.

"Yeah, no food, no water, no beds, and 24/7 torture. What a place." Gator smiled.

"How would you know, you were unconscious the first few weeks," Barton challenged.

"I'd been shot, thank you very much!"

"Because you didn't duck, when I told you to," Clint shot back and there was a look of mirth on his face. It was nice to see after the last few days Cipher Clint, but seemed so out of place after everything that had happened.

"You yelled 'duck' then jump up onto a fire escape in a crazy gymnast move. I didn't know if I was supposed to go up or down. And besides, it wasn't like I didn't know what was happening, you woke me up everything they dumped you back in the cell with me, after beating you to a bloody pulp. I had to listen to bleed all night." Gator playfully shoved his friend.

"I'm sorry I bled so loud and ruined your beauty sleep. If it happens again, I'll remember to leave your sorry ass there," Hawkeye offered.

"I'm still foggy on how exactly we made it out of there. I recall running across roof tops, and you using electrical lines as tight ropes, and convincing some old lady we were with the Red Cross so she wouldn't call the police, but other than that it's a blank." The two started chuckling at some part of the story that apparently hadn't been told.

"How can you two be so calm about something like that? Getting captured and tortured in Iran doesn't sound like a laughing matter?" Rhodey asked. Tony could tell Rhodey didn't like Gator anymore than he like  _Pierce_ /Barton _._ He couldn't say he blamed him. After all the time the Avengers had been together, Clint still wasn't nearly this friendly with them. Other than Romanov, who didn't count, he was far and away the closest to Steve but even Rogers couldn't get him to joke that much or make physical contact. The only other time he had seen Hawkeye this open, was when he had watched some old SHIELD tapes of him and Coulson together.

"Because if you don't laugh about," Gator answered.

"You just end up going crazy," Clint finished and they both started laughing in earnest, making them both sound slightly mad. It struck Tony at that moment that he didn't' think he had ever heard Clint laugh before.

"What else do we need to do?" Rhodes tried to pull the conversation back to the topic at hand.

"We just need to wait for the assault team to get here." Barton answered

"Now there is no need to put this off to wait for other troops," Beachhead cut them off, walking around the corner. "We'll go with you, sir."

"I can't ask you to do that," Barton said, looking confused.

"You aren't asking, we're offering," said the twitchy one with the EOD badge, Ellison, if Tony remembered.

"No, you can't," Hawkeye stuttered then seemed to figure out what he wanted to say, "you don't understand, this isn't your normal mission, this isn't what you guys are used to."

"Sir, for the last 4 and a half months, you have had us running around a country we weren't supposed to be in, taking down people we weren't supposed to know about. We started this with you, let us finish it. You haven't told us shit about why we are doing any of this and we still followed you," Beachhead explained.

"I know but this is my mission," Clint tried to explain to his mutinous team. Tony wondered why Barton didn't seem to understand that they wanted to help him.

"It may have started out as yours but after all this time it's our mission too," Sneeden stood his ground and the other men behind him nodded. "Sir, you've had our back for almost 5 months, keeping us ahead of shit we didn't even know was out there. Now let us have yours."

Clint looked defeated, "I suppose a direct order is the only way to get rid of you guys?"

"Maybe not even then," the one with the dog joked.

"You have to understand, what we are going to do will be hard. I can't guarantee that any of you will come back alive. This mission won't be written up or reported and no one will get recognized for valor. But know that what we are going to do is righteous and just so leave with a clear conscience that you are saving lives of not only Americans but all our allies," he told them and many of them seemed to preen under the speech. "Do you still want to come?" he asked and was answered by a resounding chorus of "Oo-ah" including the dog. "Then gear up, we leave fifteen."

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Fury asked Barton.

"It's either that or we wait the 24 hours it takes to get a trained SHIELD assault team here," he answered.

"You trust them to get the job done?" Fury pressed.

"I trust them, sir," was Hawkeye's simple reply and Fury accepted it.

Tony drifted off to say goodbye to Pepper. He met back up with them by the choppers to Beachhead arguing with Hawkeye about something?

"Sir, are we really taking them with us? I mean I guess those two are superheroes and everything but a lady and a flyboy?" He waved generally at Steve, Tony, Natasha, and Rhodes.

"Don't let the fact she doesn't have a penis fool you, Black Widow will hold her own and then some," he explained.

"If you say so, sir, but the Pogue?" he pointed at Rhodes with his lip curled and Tony wondered again what that word meant. It was the second time tonight someone at called Rhodes that. All this military slang was confusing.

"I know, not my choice. Have someone keep an eye on him. It would be awful if the Pentagon lost one of their REMFs," he sneered and Rhodey looked mad as hell.

Tony turned to Steve and his friend, "ok, what the hell was that about? What are they saying about you?"

"Pogue, I know," Steve smiled, "it's a nasty term people use for soldiers that never go into combat. I have no idea what a 'REMF' is, though."

"Rear Echelon Mother Fucker," Rhodey supplied. "Someone that doesn't even make it to the Forward Operations Base and therefore below a Fobbit," he explained and Tony felt bad for his friend. These low life Army pricks were looking down on him because he was smart enough and qualified enough to not have to actually fight. This whole place was back assward as far as he was concerned. The grunts were the stupid ones because they weren't bright enough to find a way to stay out of danger.

"If you guys are done with your little knitting circle, you think we could get going" Barton shouted at them and Tony fired his blasters just as Clint was explaining to Rhodes and Rogers how to work the carabiners so they could slide down the ropes from the helicopters.

**Monday August 14 th 1:38 am, Desert, Syria **

Steve tried not to fume at being removed from the planning of this operation. Barton had never, ever attempted to pull rank on him before. It made him want to deck his fellow Avenger that he had the nerve to point out the he wasn't even technically a captain anymore. The truth hurt, sometime far more than it should. But regardless, what he had heard seemed well thought out, though he didn't like letting Rhodes go in without his War Machine armor. He hadn't brought it with him so there was no help for it.

He heard the command for ropes to drop and he couldn't help enjoying the controlled slide down the rope. He was still surprised they managed to get a big, old dog down safely. He had to admit that he was vaguely amused at what a wide berth Tony was giving the seemingly friendly dog. Ironman had survived going into space and a nuclear blast but he was afraid of a dog.

They were set down 4 miles from their target and would have to jog the rest of the way there. It felt nice to stretch his legs and be among soldiers again, even if they looked at him as an oddity. When they were perhaps ¾ of a mile from the target, Barton held up his fist to stop them and they all dropped. Clint looked through binoculars then passed them to Steve. "Two guards on the roof and four below," Barton explained. He wondered if the information was a piece offering of sorts.

"Tony and I could take care of them," he offered, ready to be of use to the mission. Frankly he had felt sidelined and completely marginalized the entire duration of this mission.

"No, we need to be subtle," he said and motioned for Natasha to join them, handing her the binoculars.

She smiled at him, shaking out of the heavy back pack she was carrying and handing it to him. "How many do I get?" she asked.

"I'll get the two on the roof then we'll see," he answered and signaled them to stay put as they both disappeared into the darkness. Even his enhanced senses couldn't pick up where they had gone until he heard on the coms, "on my mark," and a perhaps 90 seconds later, "mark." The silencer and his position among rocks effectively made it impossible to be able to pin point him by sound. The only reason he could find Barton was the light of muzzle flash at the end of his rifle.

Steve watched through the scopes and saw the two guards on the tower drop like dead weight from Barton's shots, "Target one down, Target two down" he informed her as she sprang out and snapped the neck of one of the guards on the ground. The second went down to a throwing knife to the neck, while the third attempted to fire at her but was instantly stopped by a high caliber, ceramic rifle round to the brain stem. She easy dispatched the fourth with another broken neck.

They caught up with her and she took her pack back from Steve, after seemly appearing out of nowhere.

"Vi nye zhnayetye uto dyelat?" Clint asked her, in Russian. It seemed cagey that he was speaking to her in a language no one else understood. Not that they didn't do that all the time, they actually did and it was rather rude but they didn't do it during battles. They were both hiding something and he hoped it didn't come back to bite them in the ass.

"Da," she answered then, took off around the corner, waving, "Ya skoro vernus'"

"Do skoroy vstrechi," he called after her, then turned back to the rest of them. "Let's do this," he opened the door and they went in.

There was no resistance at first; the halls were quiet, until they got to the second juncture. Then all hell broke loose and 3 men went down almost immediately. He started to call out commands before he realized: one, no one could hear him, and two these men were looking to Barton for leadership not him. He concentrated on protected their flank and keeping an eye on Rhodes. The Colonel was acquitting himself well, but many of his shots were flying high. Tony was of even less help, as his sole blast he used collapsed part of a wall and nearly crushed their own men. Ironman was most useful as a shield and battering ram. Barton and Gator seemed to be in their element, calling out targets and quickly slinking around corners and shooting people with frightening efficiency. The halls were narrow, which made using his shield difficult, he did manage to knock down two men to their left, which earned him a smile from Gator. The two men were quickly cuffed with something called a "zip tie," that he hadn't seen before.

As they turned down the next hall, a high pitched scream that could have woken the dead was heard and a mass of black and white went flying at Barton. He side stepped, whipping his leg out to knock his assailant on the floor. Steve found it odd that Gator didn't fire at the person, until Clint grabbed it and pulled it onto its knees. It turned out to be a heavily pregnant woman that thrashed, and he guessed, cursed, as Barton removed the veil over her face. She was beautiful, with shiny dark hair, and sparkling brown eyes. She shouted something Steve couldn't understand but a strange look crossed Gator's face. Maybe Clint hadn't understood her either because he didn't react at all.

Hawkeye dragged the woman, kicking and screaming over to Rhodey and signaled the young kid with the dog. "Sanders, tie her up. Rhodes, since you can't shoot for shit, make yourself useful and keep an eye on her." He moved back towards the front and Sanders bend down to use one of those long, plastic sticks to tie her hands behind her back. As he did this, Steve thought he heard something. As he lifted his head to look around, he was beaten to the punch by Max, the K-9 dog. The black dog went from calmly standing beside his handler to a mass of fury and snapping jaws that sprang through the air, connected with a thud against another person. Max's jaws closed around the man's throat, with a wet crunch. Steve hadn't even seen Sanders give a command for the dog to attack.

A split second later, there was the sound of gun fire, and Max yelped, jumping back off his kill. "MAX, Hier!" Sander's screamed, and ran towards the dog, ignoring the fact there was a gunman. He needn't have worried though, Beachhead made short work of the shooter, even as Steve watched the black dog, dig his claws in, trying to gain purchase to stand on the blood covered ground. Sanders was beside his dog, looking heartbroken, even as Barton yelled for the medic. The medic, an older man by the name of Metcalfe, who skidded to a halt beside the ailing dog. The medic started looking over the dog, and shook his head, at the despondent kid, pulling out a syringe. He injected the badly injured dog and the kid curled over him, pulling almost limp dog onto his lap, as Max hooked his paw over the kid's arm. "Why did he do it, sir?" the tear faced kid looked up at Clint? "I didn't give him a command to attack; he just went over after that guy."

"Of course he did, Sanders, he was your partner. That's what partners do, they watch your back when you can't," Barton knelt down and put his hand on the back of the kid's neck.

"Why exactly are we wasting time worrying about a stupid dog?" Tony flipped up his visor and asked. A legitimate question he supposed but then again, considering the completely murderous looks the grunts were giving him, maybe it wasn't.

Hawkeye popped up and grabbed Tony by shoulder and pulled him close. "That is not a stupid dog, that is Corporal Max and he was a soldier in the United States Army. He gave his life to protect his unit and his country. Show some fucking respect!" he snarled then knelt back down. "Sanders, you stay here with Ellison. You two hold this juncture. We'll be counting on you to guard our backs. Can you do that for me, soldier?"

"Sir, yes, sir," he said, looking more collected.

"I knew you could," Barton smiled at him and they headed off again. Steve was worried about where Natasha was and why she hadn't rejoined them. But he hadn't heard anything from her through his earwig so he tried not to panic. No matter how many times she proved her competence, he couldn't get past his knee jerk reaction that a woman should not be in battle.

They continued down one final hallway and Clint had the majority of his men break to the left while he had them go to the right with Beachhead and Gator. He wasn't sure why they split since the majority of the people were to the left. He had questioned, when he saw the layout for the plan but Barton had refused to answer. He wondered if this was how the other Avengers felt about his plans.

As they got further in, they met 7 gunmen, two of which seemed to be kids, not more than 14 or 15. He went to simply grab them, but Hawkeye and Gator shot them as if they were full grown soldiers. Steve couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe they were ignoring the fact that those children didn't realize what they were doing. He could have tired talking to them, taking them prisoner but no, they had shot and not even bothered questioning. As he was pondering, Beachhead was hit in the leg, going down hard. He grabbed the large man and dragged him under cover. The head NCO of the group pushed with his good leg to speed them up and left a blood trail behind him. Rogers was at a loss as to what to do next, the medic had gone with the other group.

Beachhead pulled out a paper wrapped package and handed it to Steve it read, " _Compression bandage_." He opened it and looked at the thing, it was a big pad with four strip and some closures on it. He wasn't sure what to do with it but could tell Beachhead expected him to do something. He placed padded part on the open wound and wrapped the four dangly pieces around the man's leg, and hooked the closures.

"Tighter sir," the man grunted and Steve tightened it, making Beachhead turn white for a minute. "Too tight," he gasped and Steve loosened it. Just then Barton came back.

"Seriously Beach, you getting lazy on me?" Clint asked, squatting down to check on his Sergeant.

"You know me sir, I just want my spa day," the man looked tense with pain.

"You got this juncture, Sergeant. No one gets through, you understand?" Hawkeye barked at him.

"Sir, yes, sir." Beachhead answered, looking as alert as he could. Steve liked this guy. He was tough and regular army. None of the Cloak and Dagger stuff Clint tended to do.

"Are you sure, because I can leave Rogers with you?"

"I can take, sir. Just give me my gun and leave it me," he said, pushing himself further up the wall and angling himself to watch the crossroad. Clint nodded at them and took off down the hall again, taking them into a large room and stopping them abruptly, checking his watch. There were tables around and pieces of missiles on every surface, but not much different than what they had already seen. Steve wondered why they had stopped in the wide opened room but Clint purposely halted them and turned around to examine the pieces of disassembled weaponry laid out on a table. The woman continued to glare at him with undisguised hatred. If looks could kill, Barton would be dead on the floor.

"Why are we stopping here?" Tony finally voiced the question. Barton continued to study the table. Steve wondered if he was waiting for Natasha to catch up from wherever he had sent her. It bothered him that Clint hadn't let him see their orders or the entirety of the plan. Hawkeye was usually a good soldier and followed his orders, even though technically Barton did out rank him. It just seemed off to him, like there was something Clint was hiding from the rest of them and that he didn't like.

"What are you doing?" Gator approached him.

"Come on, man, it's easier for you to stab me in the back if I'm facing away from you," Hawkeye answered in a measured voice. Steve was trying to figure out the joke, when Gator smiled and backed up half a step.

"When did you figure out?" he said and kept his eyes trained on Clint's hands. Steve was utterly confused and he could tell by the look on Rhodes's face that he was too.

"I started to get suspicious after Herrara died and you knew I had brought back a missile and happened to be injured in the exact spot I thought I hit the shooter. I was pretty sure you were thinking of killing me with my own gun that night," Clint explained and Gator moved back even further. "Then there was the misleading info about the South African ships that didn't appear on the port manifests. That had me chasing my tail for a few weeks. The Four Season had been hit but you weren't the only one that knew about that, so I still wasn't sure," he paused and finally turned around. "I wasn't sure till yesterday and I dug one of your slugs out of the wall above my head," he added then finished with, "plus that woman said, 'I thought you were going to kill him'."

"Yeah, she forgot you speak Arabic too. Guess I can't talk you into looking the other way or better yet coming with me and providing security?" Gator asked, not even denying the accusations.

"Nope," Clint blinked at him.

"Aren't you even going to ask me why?" The taller man asked but Clint remained silent, which seem to make Gator angry. "After everything they've done to us, everything they've taken away, everything they've made us do, how can't not understand? We signed up to be soldiers and they turned us into murders. When was the last time you blinked at taking a life, when was the last time you asked yourself if what you were doing was right? I watched you yesterday, you didn't falter, didn't hesitate, when you shot those kids. Once you made the decision that they were in the way of the mission, they were nothing but collateral damage to you," he taunted, sounding slightly unstable. "You did it. You didn't question, you don't, you never did and I tried not to, I tried to tow that party line and maybe that was the problem, at one time I believed in mom, apple pie, and the American flag but you never did. It was never anything but job to you, a place to sleep, a meal to eat and you were fine and I wanted to be like that. Believe me, but then Iran happened. They threw us away like nothing, they didn't care that we were abandoned, forgotten, tortured, left for dead. I never would have seen my little girl's smile if you hadn't kept me alive and dragged my sorry ass out of there.

"But it didn't matter, so I get home and then two months later I'm back in the shit because I still belong to them and I can't turn it off," he pointed one gloved hand towards his head.. "They took away our humanity, made us killers, and never told us how to go back, how to trust someone with something as simple as your birthday, how sleep without your back to a fucking wall and a gun under your pillow, how to be normal again not just act normal. They never told us how not to be alert, how to walk into a room and not check the corners, how not to get nervous walking into an open air plaza, how not to be what we are; what they made us. And all we are now are weapons, they point us in a direction and send us to kill for them and don't even let us have names anymore. For fuck's sake, I've known you for nearly 12 years and I don't even know if Barton is your real name.

"I go home and I visit Evie and Lisa and I don't fit in. I can't fit in and I can't pretend anymore. That's when I met Hazine. She was so beautiful and she gave me a way out. She's a genius you see and she had this idea to build weapons and I had the clearance to get Stark's designs so we did this and we'll make millions and retire and I'll have a chance to actually raise my child, be around, let them know what I do for a living. Here, I won't have to lie to my family." He held his hand out to his friend. "You and Black Widow could help. You wouldn't have to kill for a government that doesn't give a rat's ass about you. Fuck brother, you could do whatever you wanted, you and that redheaded filly could get out of the game or, shit, be the ones running it if that's what you want," he seemed to almost plead but not for his life, more for Barton to understand him.

"You are betraying everything you ever stood for, everything we ever fought for, shed blood for." Clint finally answered.

"We don't stand for anything, Hawkeye, don't you get it? We aren't people. We're code names and numbers. When was the last time SHIELD or the Unit referred to you a man rather than an operator, resource, agent, or asset? We're the boogey men they use to scare dictators. We're just shadows that don't exist. Do you honestly think, if you walked out tomorrow that SHIELD wouldn't still use the idea of Hawkeye as a threat? When we die serving our country, we don't even get flags because JSOC won't admit we ever worked for the Army." He seemed defeated and Steve wondered if this was also how Clint felt. Barton never talked to him much about his experience in the Army, his unit, or what he did when he wasn't with the Avengers. But then again, Barton never talked much about anything. He had noticed about the wording, though. Fury, Hill, all of the SHIELD teams never talked about Clint or Natasha, only about Agent Romanov, Hawkeye, or "their assets on the ground." They completely dehumanized their non Superhero agents and treated them as nothing more than disposable weapons. At least Hill seemed to; he didn't remember Coulson talking like that.

"Don't pretend like it's just our bosses you are turning on. When we're down in shit we aren't fighting for our country anymore. We're fighting for guy beside us. You are betraying your brothers." Clint accused, voice still controlled, giving away nothing of what he felt, if he felt anything.

"And I am sorry for that but come on, brother, you saved my life. I would have died and rotted away in Iran, if hadn't been too stubborn to let me. You wouldn't give up, no matter what they did to you and you got us out. What life I have, I owe it all to you. Now let me give you one worth living, one where you can be a person instead of a code name." Barton again just stared at him, eyes unreadable from Steve's angle not that it mattered; he wouldn't have been able to read them even if he were standing directly in front of him. "Well then," Gator drew his pistol and attempted to fire at Hawkeye but he was too fast. Almost faster than Steve could follow, the gun was in 2 pieces, with one of them flying across the room. After that, the real fight started. The two were almost instantly entangled with each other, with the sole intention of killing the other. He looked over at Tony and could see the same tenses he felt. He wanted to help but there was no way he could interfere and not risk hitting Barton. He hoped Natasha got there soon.

**Monday August 13** **th** **2:06 am, Desert, Syria**

Tony watched the two teammates fight with a sense of dread. This was nothing like watching Clint and Natasha spar. There was nothing beautiful or graceful about this. These two men were trained killers and both were hell bent on trying to take the other one down. Gator was taller and stronger built than Clint but Barton was clearly faster and the more skilled fighter. He watched Gator swipe at Clint's head with his foot and Hawkeye spring backwards onto his hands, immediately whipping his feet out in a vicious pinwheel that Gator only just avoided. Barton then flipped back upright a few feet away, landing in a low crouch. Tony had seen him take that position many times before. He knew his fellow Avenger could go from zero to ' _oh look there's a dead body on the floor_ ' in the blink of an eye.

This was all so fucked up. He thought Barton and Gator were friends. Clint acted like they were friends, he joked and teased his unit fellow like they were friends, to the point where Tony was actually jealous. He even introduced him as his sometimes partner but here he was fighting with him. If Gator was the leak, why not just arrest him? And if Hawkeye knew he was the leak, why not tell everyone else, why keep them in the dark?

His musings were shortened as Clint wasn't fast enough to avoid an elbow to the face, that clearly broke his nose and probably narrow missed driving a splinter of it into his brain. He recovered quickly though, just as Natasha came running into the room and said, "shit." He could see from the look on her face, she had heard everything that had been said. Barton gave as good as he got though, and the next move was a wheel kick that connected squarely with Gator's jaw, sending several of his teeth flying across the room and blood spraying out of his mouth. The woman Rhodey was guarding screeched like a harpy but Tony couldn't understand her.

"Shit boy, you still kick like mule. You damn near snapped my neck with that one, like you did that one guy in Qatar. You remember that?" Gator said, his speech marred by an obviously broken jaw. He sighed, "I do want you to know, brother, I had nothing to do with what happened in the plaza yesterday. I tried to talk her out of it but she wanted to send a message. I never would have made you kill children." He was smart, smarter than he looked, and kept Clint between him and the others so no one could get a clear shot at him. "It don't have to be this way, Hawk. You and me, we go way back, back to training and missions that we can't tell another living soul about. I know what it feels like to be eaten alive by the things we've done but bound by security to never be able to talk about it; to never be able to get that monkey off your back. Even if you won't join me, you can let me go. Let me get out, even if you can't. You can do that for me," Gator spoke, sounding more like he was hurt, betrayed by the idea Clint would fight him, than begging. Tony realized this man must have honestly seen Barton as his friend. Tony was starting to wonder if Hawkeye was as much of a sociopath as they all assumed Natasha to be.

"I can't do that for you," Barton answered him, "but I will do you the mercy of letting your daughter think you died as a hero. She won't ever know that her father was a traitor."

"So this is how it's going to be, huh?" Gator sighed again as he drew his knife and lunged at Clint. Natasha looked tense but made no move to interfere. Tony wondered if it was some stupid  _matter of honor_  thing or if she too was at a loss how to help without accidently hurting Barton. He couldn't figure out what this dude was thinking, even if he managed to kill Barton, he still had the rest of them to go through. But as good as this guy was, maybe he only saw Romanov as a threat, assuming him and Steve and Rhodey weren't dangerous.

Clint dodged the lunge and threw a strike of his own, which Gator countered by grabbing his helmet to block the punch heading straight for his throat. Tony suspected that the speed and force of that punch would have crushed Gator's windpipe. One of the few long, involved conversation he had ever had with the assassin had been about Iron Palm technique, or the ability to punch things really, really hard. Hard enough to crush bones and go through walls.

Barton used it as a distraction to jump out of the way. He shook his hand for a moment and Tony wondered how much it must have hurt to hit that helmet but before he could ponder, Gator spoke, "I'm sorry, brother, I didn't want it to end this way." He then tossed his helmet at Barton and lunged again. Clint ducked into a crouch and Natasha drew her gun but didn't fire. Tony realized why as he saw that Barton had ducked under the lunge, allowing it to hit his body armor and had popped up, striking with slice of his own knife directly under Gator's belt, where there was no armor.

Tony hadn't even seen Clint draw his knife but his thoughts were diverted as he watched Gator's guts literally spill onto the floor at his feet. It looked like overly shiny, blood covered sausages. It couldn't be real, it just couldn't be real. The Avengers didn't deal with this type of fight. They were glitz and glamour, not entrails being held in by a shaky hand.

He watched Clint walk behind his friend, kicking him in the back of the leg to knock him to his knees. Gator had blood bubbling from his mouth and the woman with Rhodey was screaming her head off. Barton put his bloody hand on Gator's forehead, and ran his fingers into the man's thick hair. He left a red smear. "I'm sorry it had to end this way too, brother," he whispered and Tony was sure he was going to cuff him, and call in the medics.

He relaxed even, when he saw Gator meet Barton's eyes and gasp, "I'm glad it was you they sent, seems fitting." It was over and they could all relax, he was sure of it until he saw Clint tip Gator's head back and slide his combat knife across his neck, slitting his throat from ear to ear. With his head tilted back like that, Tony was pretty sure he saw the other man's spine, Barton had cut him so deep.

Tony watched with sick fascination as Barton held the man up for a few seconds, as blood literally gushed out of the gaping wound in his neck. He saw the man's eyes, wide with startlement, grow cloudy and glazed with blood loss, and eventually watched his pupils widen as death took him. It seemed as if it took no time or maybe hours, Tony couldn't tell. He had only seen this once before, with Dr. Yinsen, a person die directly in front of him, this up close and personal. The thought made him immediately look away just as Clint dropped the body onto the ground, wiping blood off his knife against his pant leg and off his face with the back of his hand. Hawkeye's eyes looked as dead as the man he had just killed.

As the body hit the floor, the world finally came back into focus and Tony noticed that Rhodes was crouched beside the pregnant women, who seemed to be hyperventilating on the floor. Steve looked lost and Natasha looked sad, maybe, for the briefest hint of a moment, when he met her eyes, before she became all business again. She walked over to Clint, took his face as if to kiss him but instead studying his nose, before grabbing it and savagely yanking the bones back into place. This caused Barton to stagger back a step, then start bleeding profusely from his nose.

"Everything's ready and the choppers are on their way" she informed him, as he held a cloth against his face. It never ceased to amaze him how they could fuck like rabbits and cuddle like puppies behind close door but on missions they acted like they couldn't care less about the other one. Clint and Natasha as different from Hawkeye and Black Widow as Bruce was from the Other Guy. If, god forbid, it was Pepper that was hurt and had just been in a fight, he would be beside himself with worry but Natasha just stared him down as he tucked the bloody rag back in his pocket. He gave the order to his men to bag up Gator, round up all prisoners, and meet him by the door. He wasn't sure how they were going to wrangle that many people back into Iraq, much less a heavily pregnant woman.

Just as he was about to ask, said pregnant woman grabbed Rhodey's gun off his hip and grabbed him around the neck, pointing it at his head. Natasha and Clint smoothly drew their pistols and he held up his hand blaster, even as he realized there was no way he could fire and not hit his friend. His suit wasn't designed for close quarters combat. He would have to fix that in the next Mark, maybe some modified tazers or ability to fire tear gas.

Barton shouted something at her in Arabic and she snarled a reply at him.

"Jarvis, run translation for Arabic to English," he asked his AI, wanting to know what was being said.

"Of course sir, Agent Barton said 'drop it,' and the woman answered, 'He's dead, you killed him, you murdering bastard."

"Let him go!" Tony shouted as he saw her tighten her grip on the gun she had against Rhodey's head. He couldn't lose Rhodey, he was his best friend, the person who had put up with him the longest, the one person he counted on more than anyone to always be there, even more than Pepper in some ways. He wondered why his friend didn't try to fight back then realized that there was no way Rhodes was going to hit a pregnant woman. She ignored him, so he shouted louder. "I said let him go!"

"She doesn't speak English, Ironman," Natasha snarked at him, eyes still trained on the woman.

Barton started to speak to her again and Jarvis translated the guttural language into his refined British speech patterns, "I'm tired of playing this game with you, Hazine. You have till the count of 3 to drop that gun or I'm going to send you to go meet Allah, assuming he accepts women that aren't virgins in. One,"

"You killed my brother, you killed my husband! He was your friend. He wouldn't kill you, when I asked because you were his brother. He didn't want to hurt you," she shouted as tears ran down her face.

"Two," Barton continued to count, never taking his eyes off her. Tony saw her flinch and couldn't tell if she was going to shoot or drop the gun. It didn't matter though because Clint said, "three," and pulled his trigger. She dropped like a marionette with the strings cut, her brains painting the wall behind her. Tony couldn't make his legs move and it appeared neither could Rhodes but Barton and Romanov could. Both were descending on the dead woman with Barton kicking her gun away and Black Widow toeing her with her boot.

Clint then picked up the gun and handed it back Rhodes, "Next time secure, your fucking side arm, Colonel," he said and signaled to two men by the door, who came in and started to load Gator's body into a bag.

His legs finally decided to work and he grabbed Rhodey in a crushing hug. He knew his friend and knew that the Lt. Colonel may be a soldier but he was no more used to this type or warfare than Tony was. Where friends were enemies and there was no such thing as a non combatant. This was as different from War Machine's work and Rhode's work on Capitol Hill as it was from Tony's work at Stark industries. This grim, dark world of intel and counter intel that Clint and Natasha lived in was not something he ever wanted to see again. In fact after what he had just seen, he wasn't sure he ever wanted to see Clint or Natasha again. Tony couldn't wrap his mind around how Barton had killed someone he had identified as a friend and worse, had shot a woman and not just a woman a heavily pregnant woman. He hadn't hesitated anymore than he had in the plaza with the kids. And Natasha hadn't tried to stop him at all, she just looked blasé about the whole thing as if it was par for course and it made him sick. He knew Hawkeye the least of the group and now he realized he did not want to know anything else about him.

So lost in thought, he almost missed Clint's command to move out. They met back up in the hallway with Beachhead, who looked woozy but was surrounded by 4 dead enemies. Captain America helped him up and they limped back towards the door they came in. At the entrance Tony saw Sander's with Max, wrapped in a white sheet they had found somewhere. The kid's eyes were red rimmed from crying. As they moved by, he struggled to lift the dead weight onto his shoulders. Tony paused to try and help but Sanders stopped him. "It's ok, sir, he's my partner, I've got him." He said sounding steadier than he looked.

Barton looked back at him and said, "of course you do, everybody comes home." As soon as they were clear of the building Barton had everyone count off to make sure they were all there or at least their bodies were. He almost missed Natasha moving back towards the door and fixing it with a heavy duty, metal zip tie. She was locking the prisoners inside. He guessed that explained how they were going to handle moving them around. A SHIELD team was probably on the way for them.

Hawkeye moved them out a good ½ of a mile before he stopped them behind a rocky outcropping. He crouched down and his men immediately followed suit. Tony stayed standing mostly just to be contrary. Clint pulled a small object from pocket #127 that turned out to be a remote. He guessed it was a transceiver to help the helicopters find them. He didn't know why they bothered; he could send up a flare or just go get the choppers himself.

What seemed odd though, was that Natasha stilled his hand before he pushed the button. They looked at each other, and had one of their annoying conversations with no words, and she took the remote from his hands, holding it in her own. She then yelled "fire in the hole," and pressed the button. Everyone but Tony ducked and covered their head but he stood, protected by his suit, and watched the building explode like a firebomb had hit it. He realized with a sick sense of dread, why Natasha had locked all the doors. They hadn't been making sure they stay in one place so SHIELD could pick them up, they had purposely trapped everyone in there before they detonated it.

His mind felt like a hard drive that was churning but nothing was happening, in fact he was sure if you looked in his eyes you would see a spinning, green ribbon. None of this, none of what had happened matched his image of what should have happened. The only thing he could fixate on was wondering, if Natasha taking the remote from Clint was her own bloodlust or an act of kindness. He followed in a numb silence as the choppers arrived and he sat down in one, even though he could easily fly himself. Steve sat opposite him, looking like he felt. There would be no parades or press conferences after this. No victorious swagger to show their triumph over evil. Like Hawkeye had said before they got there, it would never be talked about or written about. It would be like it never happened, except Tony couldn't forget, would never forget what he had seen the last few days. Barton had told his men to understand that their conscience should be clear because what they had done was just but Tony couldn't see it this way. All of this had been done because of him, to protect him and to protect the horrors his mind had created. The first thing he was going to do when they got back was find a nice corner and puke his guts out.

He scanned the area and noticed the same time Rhodey did, that a figure was staggering out of the building. "There's survivor, turn around," the Lt. Colonel yelled into his mic to the pilot.

"Belay that," Barton quickly countermanded him and swung his rifle up, firing at the figure. Tony knew with complete certainty that the figure would be dead by the time he looked back. This was nothing for Hawkeye, he'd seen him make harder shots with his eyes closed. He sank back and closed his eyes, wishing this whole thing was a dream.

It didn't take long, to land back at the base. Pepper and Fury were waiting for them along with medical teams that quickly grabbed the wounded, like greedy ghouls. As the dead were removed from the choppers, Clint and his men stood and saluted them, including the stupid dog. He would have joked about it but he wasn't in a humorous mood. He embraced Pepper, wanted to curl up and cry but as usual Fury wouldn't allow time for grieving.

"Stark, make sure your jet's ready to leave in 1 hour," he commanded then strolled over to Hawkeye and Black Widow. Steve looked around and played with his shield, clearly at a loss as to what to do. He seemed to set his jaw and followed the medics to help the wounded. Tony found him there later, telling stories about WWII and helping the men relax. Rogers was a natural leader, a natural charismatic, something Barton had lacked completely.  Steve's goodness shined from his soul and made others believe him and believe in him.  Tony was convinced that Barton didn't have a soul and if he did, it was as black as his uniform.  If Hell existed it was created for people like Clint Fucking Barton. 

Pepper agreed to arrange the jet for him and he sank down next to Rhodey. "Are you ok?" Tony asked wondering the same about himself.

"I'm fine, I'm just mad that lady got the drop on me," his friend explained.

"We all let our guard down around her. Who would suspect an 8 month pregnant women to be the mastermind of the plot," he smiled and his face felt stiff. He needed a drink.

"Your friend Hawkeye did, he should have told us. He sent us in there blind," he clenched his fist and even Tony could figure out the root of his anger. It was the same as Tony's and he suspected Steve's. If any of them had known that this was an execution rather than an investigation, they never would have gone. Though in Barton's defense, he had been clear he didn't want them there.

"He lied to us, to all of us, but then again that's what spies do. They lie and they hide information. The only thing I can trust about them, is that they'll never tell me the whole truth," Tony tried to work it out for both of them. But really he had felt that way about Natasha but never really about Hawkeye. Barton had always been tight lipped and emotionally vacant but he didn't read like a shifty spy, not like Fury and Romanov. Intel and counter intel, their little joke made more sense. She was the cloak and he was the dagger.

"How can you trust them any of them, if they do this to you. He killed," he paused, "he killed a woman, unarmed children and she blew up prisoners. They don't deserve the title of hero not like you or Steve." This wasn't far from what he had been thinking for months. But Clint wouldn't have had to kill those people and Natasha wouldn't have had to blow them up if Tony hadn't come up with those designs in the first place. "How can you trust him, if he killed his friend in cold blood?"

Tony thought about it for a minute, "I don't know if I can again. After New York and Fury threw us all together, I didn't know anything about him or that much about Natasha either. We just sort of fell into this rhythm of working together and I knew if I needed them they would be there. I never thought about what they did when they weren't with us and they never talked about. Anytime I asked him about where he went, he either didn't answer or snapped something sarcastic at me and I never pushed.  I knew conceptually she was a spy and he was sniper. Intel and counter intel, they joked all the time and I never really thought much about what being friends with an assassin meant because they kept all this shit away from us. I never knew, I never realized," he stopped and saw Fury and their wayward killers heading in their direction. "But now that I do, I don't know what I'm going to do."

He leaned his head back and so did Rhodes and he listened to Barton convince Fury to let him take Gator's body back home. The idea of having a dead body in the cargo hold of his jet near his things really, really grossed him out. He continued to track Clint's progress as he stopped to talk to his men. A few minutes of one on one time before they never saw him again, Tony guessed. He wondered why he bothered. He wasn't Pierce, he wasn't their captain. Tony didn't know who the fuck he was anymore. He heard him stop and talk to Sneeden, who was cooling his heels before they sewed him up.

"I wanted to come say good-bye, Sergeant," Clint said.

"I understand, sir,"

"You'll be fine, you know. I have one of those too," Tony had turned and could see him point at rather grizzly scar on his right thigh, where he had been shot in Afghanistan. When Tony had heard the story it had sounded like a grand adventure but when he had watched the tapes, it was like a horrid nightmare. Sort of like this. "They are sending you to Ramstein for R&R, it's a fun place, make sure to check out the bars west of the hospital, good German beer," he could hear and see the fake smile on Barton's face. He wondered how the fuck Clint knew about the beer, Barton didn't drink.

"I will, sir," the man sat up on his elbow and saluted, "it was an honor and a pleasure serving with you, Captain." Hawkeye saluted him back. "And I'm sorry about what happened to your friend."

Clint moved to walk away and stopped, "I'm not really a captain," he said, looking at his hands.

"I knew i!  You're too damn useful to be an officer," the prone man gloated.

"I'm actually a major," Barton corrected then finished with, "but I started out as a private. I didn't become an officer till I had 5 years as an enlisted, if it makes you feel better."

"Well I still say you are the first officer I've served with that was worth his salt, Major Pierce," the man still smiled at him and Clint started to walk away but stopped.

"Barton," he said quietly, looking down at his shoes. "My name, my real name is Barton."

"Barton," Beachhead repeated and mangled it as much as his Alabama drawl mangled most words in the English language. "How about I just call you Hawkeye?"

"Sure, everyone else does," Barton agreed but Tony recognized the mumbling, quiet tone he associated with Clint when he wasn't in agent mode. It was the first sign he had seen of the Clint he knew since they had gotten here. And a part of wanted to go over there and scream at the man but another part of him wanted to hug him because without meaning to, Beachhead had just done to him exactly what Gator had been talking about. He took away his name, disregarded him as person, and reduced him to a code name, a weapon.

Fuck this heavy shit, he patted Rhodey on thigh, "Let's go get drunk," he stood up, holding his hand out to his friend, who took it with a small grin. Rhodey would be ok, he wasn't so sure about the rest of them.  With Rhodey the betrayal had been professional, one officer not being up front with another.  But for him and Steve, it was personal.  Barton had flat out let them believe one thing, all the while planning to masacre civilians and his friend. 

**Monday August 13** **th** **10:19 am, En Route, Stark's Jet**

Natasha looked across the plane at her partner and finally allowed her heart to break for him. Until now, when they were in the thick of the mission, then mission clean up, she had ignored that niggling feeling of empathy she had for him. It was a voice in her head, just one of the many and like the others, she could ignore it. But now, safely tucked in Stark's private jet with just their friends and co workers she couldn't drown out that compassionate side of herself anymore.

In a way, it was odd, since it hadn't existed before she met Clint. Before him she had no concept of empathy or sympathy. If she caused pain it was of little consequence to her and if she saw someone suffering, it was just another bit of information to be used against them. And even still to some extent other's misery was just background noise. Random people didn't make her feel bad about the injustice of life. But Clint wasn't random, not to her, and his sadness did affect her. She watched him, as they leveled out and wanted to cry. He still sat in his filthy combat gear, his rifle beside him and his head resting against the window, his body was still rigid and unable to relax fully. Below his eyes was already turning dark with bruises from his broken nose and she knew how damn much that hurt. She knew what he was going through; his body no longer able to bring itself into homeostasis against the massive amounts of stress hormones, was crashing. Shell shock, Battle Fatigue, Combat Stress Reaction, it didn't matter what you called it, what mattered was helping him.

She wondered when was the last time he had slept and wondered how she could make him. She mentally shook herself. It didn't matter, she would figure something out and right now. She unlocked her seatbelt, ignoring that the "fasten seatbelt" sign was still lit and signaled a scrawny flight attendant, asking for some water and a towel. She then rooted through Clint's gear to fish out his sleeping pills. She opted for the gold foiled Halcion because they were only flying to the helicarrer rather than back to the states and she wanted him out quick. Plus she didn't want to risk interfering with anything they might give him to treat his nose when they got back to SHIELD. She looked over at him and noted that he seemed to not care that she was rummaging through his things, but then again he never did. Their relationship was just like that. What was hers was her and what was his was hers. Even at Stark's tower, her rooms belonged to her and he never entered without permission and his quarters were theirs and she came and went as she pleased. That level of lassitude about his personal space always seemed oddly Communist to her but then again, his entire life, he had never lived by himself.

Finally she grabbed a flannel and a salad bowl filled with water and glared Tony and Pepper out of the largest couch at the back of the plane. She approached him, and his eyes listlessly followed her movements the entire time. That thousand yard stare too common a look for him lately and she was again glad this fucked up mission was over. She slowly reached out and took his rifle, leaning it against the wall beside him. She didn't miss the almost imperceptible stiffening as she took his weapon away from him, nor did she miss the trust it must have taken for him let her move it. He was still amped up, yet clearly exhausted, sadly again a state that she had seen too many times. She needed to get him cleaned up and to sleep.

"Come on," she touched the inside of his forearm just above his glove, two of her fingers resting on his watch and two of them trailing across the skin. Under his watch would be his pulse point and where she knew his other tattoo was; a small white cherry blossom. "Let's get you cleaned up." He stared at her in confusion and she tightened her grip and tugged on his arm. Too many years of seeing him like this after missions, so out of it that he couldn't even figure out how to untie his shoe, and she knew her best bet was just to tell him what to do rather than give him a choice.

He stood, following her to the long couch. It grated on her nerves that Tony, Steve, Pepper, and Rhodes all looked away from them. Only Fury met her eyes but even she couldn't tell what he was thinking. Once back there, she began to divest him of his body armor, pocketing the orders from the Joint Chief's. She figured she might need them to convince Steve that Clint hadn't liked what they had done any more than the rest of them. She did leave his other weapons in place, though, knowing it would stress him out too much to take them. She also made him take off his uniform jacket and keffiyeh, both of which were moist and heavy with sweat, leaving him in his pants, boots, belt, t-shirt, and gloves. She debated making him changed his sweaty shirt too but decided she didn't want to take the time to find one, if he even had a clean one.

She sat him down, the two facing each other both with one leg on the couch and the other on the ground. She balanced the bowl between them and wet the cloth, starting with the sweat and grime on his cheeks and forehead. She then moved to clean the caked blood off his nose, upper lip, and chin. He was placid under her touch, too tired and too worn to cause any trouble. She wondered how close he was to a nervous breakdown and decided she didn't want to know. He was tough, tougher than most but even he could only take so much.

She slid the cloth to the back of his neck and he leaned forward, moving closer into her space. She let him and even leaned further over to meet him half way, her forehead resting against his, her hand holding the rag on his neck. She watched a drop of bloody water roll to the tip of his nose and drip into the bowl, leaving a momentary pink design in the quickly darkening water. She felt his eyelashes flutter against her own as he blinked, their noses nearly touching. Being this close to him this openly was refreshing and devastating. She could not and did not stop the tears welling in her eyes from slipping down her cheeks. She knew he wouldn't cry, sometimes she thought maybe he couldn't but someone needed to. Someone should shed tears over the deaths of those children, Hazine, and Gator. One of them should weep that he had become what they had both been afraid of, he had become a murderer.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to him, as she put her hand on his face and watched her tears drip into the water bowl. More salt to add to the blood and sweat she was cleaning off of him. "I'm so sorry. I wish I had gotten there sooner," she paused as he closed his eyes. It was better this way, looking into them was hard. "I wish I could have killed him for you," she finished and felt him relax a little more against her. She couldn't give him absolution for killing his friend but she could give him understanding.

She let him drop his head against her shoulder, his forehead a heavy weight against her as she took his left hand and started to wipe away the blood. It was Gator's blood and it didn't surprise her when she looked over and saw his eyes were still closed. There wasn't really all that much blood. Clint had stood behind Gator when he slit his throat so he had stayed mostly clean but she swore she could smell it all over him. The metallic scent of gore that defined their life clung to him like a ghost that didn't want to leave. She took his glove off, the leather brown and stiff from sweat and Gator's guts. The Velcro closure on the back sticky with blood and snot from Clint's broken nose.

As she reached for his right hand, the hand he had tucked in his lap, her finger tips came away red. She stared at her fingers for a moment, then looked at the short, harsh knap of the carpeting and noticed small drops of blood. She pulled on his fingers, holding his hand above the wrist and found his hand slick with fresh blood. She hadn't been crazy when she thought she had smelled it.

"Clint," she whispered as she flipped his hand palm up to try and find the injury. She found the underside of his glove dark with blood. She unhooked the Velcro on the back and worked the glove up his hand. He tensed and winced as she pulled. Making her up her mind, she freed a knife and simply sliced the material away instead. He would be mad at her later for it, those were his favorite light colored gloves, but right now she was more concerned with what she saw as she pulled the leather away.

She gasped and he hissed, when she touched the wound, the only sound he had made since they had left the base with Gator packed into the cargo hold of the plane. He had a gash on the back of his hand just below his ring finger knuckle and other on his palm a bit further down. Both looked to be caused by the 4th metacarpal bone having snapped and pushed through his skin. He had given himself a compound boxer's fracture, no doubt from when he had punched Gator's helmet. She suspected the fifth bone was probably broken too but there was nothing she could do about it.

"Shit," she breathed when she saw it and jumped up to grab Tony's expensive bottle of gin and some ice, because seriously, why would you drink gin if vodka was available. She poured it over the wound, till she could clearly see the ends of the bones sticking out. She looked at him and found his eyes trusting. "Steve," she called, not taking her eyes from her partner's, "will you please bring me the first aid kit?" She held his hand as it sluggishly dripped blood into the bowl that now reeked of alcohol.

He stiffened when Rogers came near but did nothing else. She shooed the super soldier away, when he offered to help. She hadn't missed his discomfort with having him too near. When he was like this, her and Squawks were the only ones he was comfortable with. "I'm going to wrap it to keep it clean then we'll ice it," she spoke to him as she placed gauze pads over the holes and wrapped bandages around it, not too tight because it would swell but tight enough to try and stop the bones from moving further.

It must have hurt but he made no sound, no movements, no protest at all as she dressed his wound. He only watched her with a sort of dull fascination one would watch the parts of a school play that didn't involve your own kid. His slight movements were lethargic and uncoordinated. He was crashing from exhaustion and mental fatigue. She wondered if they should have stayed longer and let him get some rest or if it was better to flee to someplace he felt safer? It didn't matter now, they were en route and nothing could be done except get him to sleep.

She pressed ice gently only the back of his hand, he didn't react to it at all. She was glad for that, if nothing else. "I don't have anything for pain, but I have these," she dug out the Halcion she had taken from his gear. "You need to get some sleep, you'll be more comfortable that way," she tried and she saw his fear at the idea, though he said nothing. She thought of all the things she could say to convince him he was being an idiot. He was on a plane, he had the Avengers guarding him, he was useless as he was, ect. But she settled for, "I'm right here," whispered in Russian, "I won't let anyone get to you, I'll keep you safe," she leaned her forehead against his, and put her free hand on the back of his neck. "I've got your six, sweetheart, you can trust me," she told him, as she ran her thumb against his hair line. "Will you take them, please?" she switched back to English. He looked at her for a moment, she could see the weariness warring with wariness but he closed his eyes and slowly nodded yes.

She quickly freed 2 of the small blue pills and popped them into his mouth. She placed the bowl on the floor and signaled the flight attendants for a blanket, though didn't let them get too close. Once she had him lying down, she ran her short nails through his hair. "It's ok, Clint, it's going to be ok, just get some sleep," she quietly repeated to him in Russian until his breath had evened out and the tenseness of his frame relaxed into drug induced sleep. She handed Rogers the bowl of now brownish red water and Tony curled his lip at it even as Steve looked away. It was the perfect analogy to their lives, grime, gun powder, sweat, and blood mixed together; coating everything so you never felt clean again. Tony and Steve didn't understand it. It wasn't their type of world or their type of fight. They turned their noses up at the types of life she and Clint led yet professed to be their friends. Maybe her trust in them had been misplaced.

As she watched him sleep, she rested her head beside him and allowed her mind to drift to one of her favorite diversions, what would she do, if she could do anything. When she had been very young, and Red Room had been all she knew, she dreamed of being able to eat, sleep, or play whenever she wanted. As she grew older and saw more of the world she dreamed of being away from the spy game and the tight leashes her handlers held her by. Her goal had been to find a place, a safe place. With that goal in mind, she started adding things to the list of what she wanted, when she was no longer a government killer and whore. Her place should have a ballet studio and a large bath tub for long soaks. Those had been the first whims she thought of. Then she decided she wanted a city loft with big windows and sunshine, after she saw Hungary for the first time.

But the biggest change had come a few years ago, when she had been sitting in the back of a car and day dreaming about it. Without realizing it, she had added Clint into her list of things she wanted with her in her safe place. That had scared her to her core and she didn't talk to him for 3 weeks afterwards. It had taken her that long to come to terms with the fact that she considered him part of her future and to be ok with that fact. Afterwards, she had started adding things to her wish list that he would like and her city loft had turned into a woodland retreat. First for him was a library. One of the things she had noticed about him at the beginning was that he liked to haunt libraries and bookstores. He never bought anything or checked out anything, he just read what he could, when he could. She asked him once, why he always placed them back in their spots before leaving and he had explained, "because books are heavy, and I don't have any place to keep them." So she wanted a place for him to be able to keep books on whatever he wanted to read about.

Next had been a kitchen. That one had come later but it was perhaps what she wanted for him most. He loved to cook and especially loved to bake, in fact most of the books he liked to look at were cook books. It had taken him years to admit that his mother and his grandmother had been bakers, in their native Germany. She wanted to give him a beautiful kitchen where he could create anything he wanted. Stark had beaten her to the punch with that one, though Clint never referred to it as his kitchen. Everyone else did but Clint always said, "Stark's kitchen."

There were other things, like land and horses that she thought they would both enjoy. She definitely wanted him to have a dog because he could never quite hide the wistful look in his eyes when he saw people at the park with their dogs. She suspected out of all the men he had lost, Max would probably haunt him the most.  But most of all, she wanted to give them both a home.

They were each broken people and each had their quirks because of it. She was, though NO ONE but Hawkeye knew, scared of fire. Clint liked fires, not as in a  _he liked to set them_ way, though he did like blowing things up, but in a he liked to relax in front of them and watch them way. She couldn't stand it and as soon as she had told him, he never did it again. One of his quirks was that the word  _home_ bothered him.

Unlike her, he had had a home and a family once. They hadn't been ideal but at one point in his life he had had a place that was his and that he could always return to. But after his parents died he had lost it, all of it and since then hadn't had a home in any sense of the word. His childhood had been spent in orphanages or foster homes then traveling from town to town in the circus. After that was prison and the Army, where he bounced from base to base, mission to mission. The idea of home was so sacred to him that he was petrified of having one because he might lose it again. It had taken her some time to puzzle out his fear but after months of noticing he almost never used the word  _home_ always said, base or stateside, or something else she had figured it out. Once she had, she had never used the word around him again. But none of that changed the fact that she wanted to give both of them one, someplace where Clint and Natasha felt like they belonged, where they felt like they were people not weapons.

She wondered briefly before reapplying the ice to hand, how much Clint actually agreed with what Gator had said?

TBC

Thank you guys for all the reviews. Keep them coming!

 


	8. The Ashes Settle

**Into the Fire 7: – The Ashes Settle Part 1:**

**Monday August 14** **th** **2:35 pm, Helicarrier**

"Wow, Barton, you really got yourself banged up didn't you?" Clint knew that voice, that voice he had heard so many times in his ear for all the years he had worked at SHIELD. He didn't want to open his eyes because he must be dreaming, Squawks was dead. "How long are you planning to play possum? Romanov isn't going to be nice to you forever. I give her another 3 seconds before she resorts to squeezing your nose shut and won't that hurt like a son of bitch?"

He opened his eyes and stared at Tasha. She was on her knees beside the couch he was sleeping on. He looked behind her and swore he saw Coulson standing there, the right side of his mouth quirked up in a smirk and his eyes shining with mirth. "You're dead," he mumbled and it made his whole fucking face hurt.

"I'm not dead, Clint, I'm right here," Natasha whispered to him and he closed his eyes. He wanted to go back to sleep.

"I'm not dead either, or maybe I am. Or perhaps I'm just a psychological defense mechanism gone horribly wrong from massive Halcion consumption. It wouldn't be the first time that shit has made you hallucinate. Remember when we came back from the Ivory Coast and you took some then freaked out on the plane? I had to tie you down and you kept getting out of every fucking knot I tied," he smiled full on, crinkling the skin at the sides of his eyes.

"That was from meningitis. I had a 105 degree fever and thought there were giant cockroaches that looked like marshmallows eating out my insides," he mumbled.

"Was that before or after your insides ended up all over my tie and lap?" Squawks joked with him. He didn't quite clearly remember it but apparently he had tossed his cookies all over his handler, repeatedly.

"Who the hell is he talking to?" he heard Stark ask. Oh yeah, that's right Squawks was dead not waiting on the tarmac for him.

"Don't worry about it," Nat answered for him. "I gave him Halcion so he would sleep. Sometimes it makes him see things that aren't there." He stood up and staggered after her and nearly busted his ass, if Steve hadn't caught him on the way down the stairs. "And makes him slightly uncoordinated."

"What do you want to bet that there is a 50/50 shot you die on the table from a drug overdose because your partner gave you almost double the dose she should have?" Coulson asked him as he walked beside them towards the infirmary.

"I don't want to bet against you, you always win," he couldn't stop himself from saying. It was true, Phil won nearly ever bet they had ever made that was based on chance. Now when it came to bets on skill, Clint could pwn him but luck was always on Coulson's side until Loki.

"Yeah you're right, and dying that way would be too easy, wouldn't it? I mean you deserve something worse than that, like having your insides eaten out by giant cockroaches that look like marshmallows," his old handler made wiggly fingers at him. "How exactly do cockroaches look like marshmallows or vice a versa? I mean they really look nothing alike unless they are Peep cockroaches. Oh well, once they are done patching you up, let's go watch a Biggest Loser marathon. Nothing cheers you up watching fat people caper," Phil used to always say shit like that to him, when he was wounded, offer him stupid things to do so they could hang out and Squawks could keep an eye on him.  He would usually curl up on Coulson's couch and submit to being looked after, only because he knew he didn't have a choice and maybe it made him feel like someone might actually care if he was hurt.  He missed it so fucking much it wasn't even funny.

"That's you," he could tell he was slurring but was helpless to stop himself. "You are the one that likes reality TV. I like cartoons." Phil just winked and walked beside him as he made his way into medical. It was beyond comforting to think his handler was beside him, like having your mother hold your hand at the dentist, your faithful dog at the end of your bed to keep away nightmares, or the weight of your favorite firearm during a fight. It felt safe and fuck he needed that. Even though he had risked his life on Coulson's say so all the time, he had never felt out of control or left adrift. He had never felt like a pawn, being moved around to win a game. Now with Hill has his handler, half the time he felt like he was in freefall with no parachute.

The rest of the Avengers followed, he thought, but it was hard to tell with his eyes mostly swelled shut. He leaned against a wall to keep himself upright and let his eyes drift shut. When he opened them again, Coulson was still there. "Why are you still here?" he asked, without even meaning to. Fuck he hated being drugged.

"I don't know, you tell me," he cracked open a peanut shell and ate the peanut. Squawks had always loved peanuts. His command centers would always have cups filled with peanut shells after missions, especially after he quit smoking. The smell always reminded Clint of the circus.

He thought about it for a while but couldn't come up with an answer. "I don't know either, at least you aren't Loki."

"Why would you think I would be Loki?" Phil asked him, then pulled a chair over to him and kicked back pretending to write on a pad and doing his Sigmund Freud impersonation. "Have you been hallucinating about Loki lately, has this little incident brought up your guilt feelings over sending me for a dirt nap?" He tapped his pen against his lip. Where the fuck had he gotten a pen from?

"Stay out of my head, Squawks," he grumbled, realizing how ridiculous a statement it was considering that Coulson was all in his head. Squawks had always been in his head, ever since the first time he had looked at him and told him it would be ok. But in Clint's defense, Phil did have a masters in clinical psychology and was even better at manipulating people than Natasha.  Fury had originally sniped him from Military Clandestine Services because he was their best profiler. 

"Why do think that I am just a hallucination, by the way?" Phil asked him, as he settled on the floor beside him. Clint was pretty sure the doctor or maybe Tasha told him he was supposed to stay on his feet and now he was sitting down on the floor and didn't really remember getting that way. 'How do you know I'm not a ghost? I mean if demi gods that can cast spells and throw lightening around exist, why can't ghosts? I know you believe in them, ever since you were a little boy and had a run in with that weird Winchester kid and his scary father at that orphanage. What was his name again?"

"Dean, I don't know the dad's name but he was scary," he answered for some reason, " and if you were a ghost, why would you come see me?" He countered and leaned his head over. He could swear he felt Squawks's shoulder under him. He missed Phil so much sometimes it was almost physically painful. Squawks would understand how he felt right now and not look down his nose at him, not like Rhodes and Stark and Rogers, he mentally sighed. Nor would he assume that Clint was being weak or inappropriately attached to a co worker, like Natasha and Hill might. They didn't understand the bonds of brotherhood forged in combat.

"Who the hell else would I haunt? I didn't have a husband or a significant other like you," he teased.

"I'm not married," Clint corrected the old joke between them. Squawks always said he was Natasha's  _wife_.

"Semantics. I also have no kids."

"That you know of," Clint through in a jibe.  Phil had always been a bit of a philanderer to say the least.  

"That I know of, and I wouldn't want to torture my family by showing up there. Short of eaves dropping in Fury's office, which only you happen to find enjoyable, where else am I going to go? So maybe I came by to visit my  _little brother,_ " Clint thought about that for a bit, trying to poke holes in the theory but frankly he was too damn drugged out of his gourd to come up with a coherent response and he was pretty sure he was drooling. "But more importantly, how do you know I'm not actually alive and here?" That perked him up a bit. "Come on, all the times you have been hurt, have I ever not shown up, have I ever not been there when you needed me and don't you dare say Loki because I pushed Fury to assemble the fucking Avengers to help find you. Maybe I just badgered Fury so much that he finally let me out of hiding to check on you." Christ he wished that was true.

"That's not true," he mumbled.

"Why can't it be true?"

"I saw your body. I checked your left hand and you had the scar you got in Egypt going through that window," he explained. He had hoped when he heard about Squawks that it was a joke or that they were wrong but the scar was the same. His best friend was dead. "It matched mine exactly," he looked down at his hands and wondered why his right one was covered. His scar matched Phil's because he had jumped out of the window after his unconscious handler and caught him by his hand that happened to have a giant piece of glass sticking out of it. He had had to pull the glass out to let go. After which they both had to go through multiple HIV and Hepatitis test and both had nearly identical but perpendicular scars on their hands.

"And you can't fake a scar? You honestly trust Hill and Fury to tell you the truth? You think for one second that they wouldn't hide me to manipulate Stark and Rogers not caring what it might do to you and Natasha? Of course he would, they don't care about you as anything other than an asset? Come on, they sent you to kill Gator. Fury and Hill knew he was there and knew he was a suspect but they didn't pull you. They didn't even give you the common courtesy of capturing him and having someone else do it. They made you slaughter your friend," Coulson explained, "just like Loki did."

"I know they would but you wouldn't," he mumbled. Coulson never would have made him kill Gator. He would have insisted on going with them and sent Clint off somewhere and quietly shot Singer in the back of the head, no fuss, no muss. Gator never would have even seen him coming. "You wouldn't lie to me, Squawks," he knew he was right even as he hated that he was. He would give anything for Phil to still be alive. He would take his place and lie down in that coffin himself to have Coulson back because Phil could do so much good and all Clint could do was kill. "You wouldn't have let them hurt your family or me and Tasha like that. You got me out of that hell, you wouldn't let them throw me back in. You wouldn't have let them send me, not for this job" he closed his eyes and wanted to cry.

"Then I am all in your head, which brings us back to the question, why am I here?" Clint opened his eyes and saw Phil's guts hanging out and his throat slit from ear to ear. He immediately snapped his eyes shut again.

"I don't know," he almost whimpered and realized he was on a gurney and didn't remember moving onto it.

"You must know, you brought me here," Phil stood behind the masked doctors and nurses, bouncing a ball off the wall. The medical staff was stabbing him with needles and shining lights in his eyes making him want to sneeze.

"I don't know," he whispered as they put the mask over his face.

"Oh you are no fun. I was hoping to find out if you brought me here as a coping mechanism because you associate me with safety and acceptance or if I was a tool for self flagellation because I'm another person you professed friendship to then killed," he turned around and smiled. There was blood on his teeth.

 **Monday August 14** **th** **7:03 pm, Helicarrier**

Consciousness was slow to return and Clint had no desire to rush it. He could tell without even opening his eyes that he was in a private recovery room in the Helicarrier's medical section. They always gave the field agents private rooms. It was just safer that way. He had woken up here enough times to recognize it by the feel of the linens alone, even without registering the pulse ox monitor on his finger. For the briefest of moments he thought he felt Squawks's feet propped up on the end of his bed. He could just imagine if he opened his eyes, he would see his former handler stretched out in a chair beside him, tie loosened, shiny black shoes resting by the foot board, and his chair positioned between the bed and door so he could protect his downed solider. That was what he always found, when he woke up but he wouldn't this time. It made him want to go back to sleep and never wake up.

He tried, he really did, but his mouth was cottony dry, his brains felt scrambled, and his head was spinning making him nauseous. Fuck he hated pain killer and going under anesthetic. He always puked when he woke up. Shit, he was drooling again. He finally cracked his eyes opened to see how far away the pale, pasticky smelling basin was and whether he should try to grab it with his bandaged hand or the one with his finger clip and the IV. His eyes finally focused on his partner, who was curled up in the chair beside him, doodling something on a digital tablet. She was wearing jeans, flats, and his tactical jacket. Why did she always take his jacket? She had on no makeup and her hair was damp, with just the ends starting to curl. Goddamn, she was beautiful like this.

She looked at him, knowing that he was watching her, and smiled. She looked a bit tired but not too bad. She must have taken a nap while he was out. He wondered how long he had been out. She leaned forward and touched his bicep, "you want water or a bucket?" She knew him too damn well sometimes.

"Bucket," he whispered and promptly threw up, when she handed it to him. It didn't take long, he had almost nothing in his stomach. All the while, Tasha sat watching him with a critical eye. She took the basin and handed him some water when he was done and he sank down and bent his knees, examining his bandaged hands. It was braced, not casted and there were drains sticking out of it, gross. She came back as he was looking at it. "How bad is it?" He croaked. 

"You broke 3 knuckles and two larger bones, complete with a compound fracture of your 4th metacarpal bone. The docs pinned them back together and said it should take about 6 weeks before you can shoot or use your bow. Oh and your nose is broken," she folded herself back onto her chair, one foot tucked under her and the other leg pulled up to her chest.

"Ah," he put his hand down and closed his eyes. His stomach was churning from 3 sips of water.  _He was not going to puke again, he was not going to puke again, he was not going to puke again!_

"Are you alright?" she asked, with an annoyingly knowing look on her face.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he ground out and swallowed some more water.  He hated pain killers for this exact reason.

"You sure?" she smirked at him.

"I'm sure,"  _he was not going to puke again, he was not going to puke again, he was not going to puke again!_

"They told me to try and get you to eat something once you woke up. I brought you this," she opened up a SHIELD issued glucose and electrolyte replacement gel, green flavored. On the best of days, he gagged when he smelled those things and now was not the best of days.

"I hate you," he groaned and retched into the basin she handed him.

"I know," she patted his back and sucked down the horrid, greenish yellow gel. He had no idea how she could stand them. He would rather drink elephant semen then those things. He heaved again and decided not to think about vomit inducing green sludge or Pachyderm ejaculates.

When he was done he felt mostly better but very cranky. "So when does Fury expect me to report to him?"

"I suspect he'll be willing to wait until you aren't impersonating a camel trying to regurgitate his stomach," she joked with him and held up the tablet she had been reading to show him a badly drawn picture of a flower. He couldn't help his lips from turning up. Ever since the first time she had gotten hurt working for SHIELD, they always gave each other pictures of flowers because there was no florist on the helicarrier. She was usually a much better artist though. This one had clearly been drawn in one of those aps where you used your finger to draw.

"When can I get out of here?"

"Docs said you could leave as soon as you could get up and walk out but you have to come back tomorrow to have the drains removed and get the bandages changed ," she explained as she handed him some clothes. They were sweat so they shouldn't be too hard to put on one handed. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed and the room went into a tailspin causing him to start repeating,  _he was not going to puke again, he was not going to puke again, he was not going to puke again!_ "You know, you could just stay here and relax a while longer. It isn't like your bunk is that much more comfortable than this one," she suggested from in front of him.

"No, I want to go back to my room so I can puke in my own toilet," he joked as he felt her remove his IV for him. He was glad because it was in his left arm and his right hand was useless.

"Cry baby," she teased him as she helped him pull a hoody over his bandaged hand. He was so thankful she opted for one with a zipper rather than a pull over. His nose hurt like a son of a bitch and he didn't want anything to touch it.

"Am not," he teased right back, finally feeling steady enough to open his eyes and not start dry heaving.

"Are too, you were talking to Phil while you were out of it. Your version of wanting your mommy, I guess. It was sort of cute."

"Fuck you," he grumbled half heartedly and she stuck her tongue out at him. This banter was so normal for them it made him feel better than almost anything. She held her hand out to him once he was dressed. He had two immediate thoughts once he was upright. First was how glad he was to be leaving medical the other was how very much he wanted to throw up again.  _He was not going to puke again, he was not going to puke again, he was not going to puke again!_

They shuffled back to his room and he kicked off his shoes and collapsed in bed. Luckily once lying down he didn't feel like retching anymore but his hand and face were aching. Tasha sank down beside him, proffering a pre-opened Sprite and a tube of saltines. "White trash penicillin," she smiled at him and he tried to smile back but instead put them on the night stand. He wasn't ready for food yet. She took his good hand and slid down beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. He tipped his own over so he could rub his cheek against her hair and ran his thumb over her knuckles. It was the only thing he could do that didn't hurt. She sighed, "Fury wants me back in New York tomorrow. Something about not wanting to give the Avengers time to stew."

"Oh," he didn't know what to say. She had to do what Fury ordered but he really wanted her to stay with him at least for a little while. For once in his life, he didn't want to be alone.

"He wanted me to leave with them earlier today but I wouldn't until you woke up," she tilted her face up and kissed his jaw. "I had to make sure you were alright and I didn't trust Hill to do it." The fluttery feeling in his stomach was most certainly nausea and not some emotion that didn't exist for assassins like them. "He said I could spend the night and head out tomorrow morning," she sat up and pulled her shirt off, stripping down to a tank top and her underwear.

"I wish I was up to giving you a better night," he joked, ridiculously glad she was going to stay with him. He didn't know why he was being so clingy but he just wanted someone he could hide his face against and not deal with the world. He didn't need forever, just a few hours, just long enough to get his head on straight again. Squawks used to let him do it all the time, though not literally like he probably would with Tasha. Ok, maybe he had done it once but in his defense he had had meningitis and even the slightest bit of light felt like a laser frying his brain and maybe he had hidden his face against Squawks's leg. But generally, Coulson used to drag him back to his quarters and Clint would sit on his couch; because he had enough space for a bedroom, a bathroom, and a sitting area; and keep him distracted and safe away from everyone until he could work through whatever shit the mission had thrown at him. It hadn't mattered if it was because he was sick, hurt, or had nearly gotten gang raped because Fury wouldn't let him blow his cover. Phil's couch had been like a little island where reality didn't exist.

"You can pay me back with interest when you're feeling better," she pulled the covers over both of them. "But right now we both need to get some sleep that isn't drug induced." She wrapped her arms around him and he knew she was trying to get him to relax and he would have kissed her for it, if moving his face wasn't one of the last things he wanted to do.

He settled for whispering in Russian, "thanks Natashen'ka, I don't know what I would do without you."

 **Tuesday August 15** **th** **4:22 pm – Stark Tower New York City, USA**

Natasha threw her bags down on the floor just inside of the bedroom and flopped herself onto the bed. Tony or actually she suspected Pepper, had designed her rooms to be elegant, opulent, and utterly luxurious. She tended to never go in there and always stayed in Clint's dim, grey room. Hawkeye's room was an oddity in the tower in that its owner couldn't care less about it. Clint had given Tony carte blanch to do whatever he wanted for his room and Stark and Pepper had started out with an ultra modern 50s inspired design, which Clint had seemed ambivalent about. Tony had read his lack of enthusiasm as dislike and went back to the drawing board and tried a soft, warm Moroccan feel with thick Persian rugs and deep reds and golds. Natasha had shot that one down before they even showed it Clint. Even though Barton had spent his entire adult life in the military and seemed to have no design taste when it came to interior decorating, she suspected he wouldn't want to be reminded of the Middle East. Finally Pepper had asked for her advice.

She had been stumped at first. In all the years she had known him she didn't remember him ever saying he liked one style over another. She knew he was mostly color blind so he didn't have a favorite color and that he had never lived in his own space before so had no preference on thickness of beds or pillows. It had been a challenge to say the least and after two days of heavy thought on the matter, she gave up and told them to paint everything grey because that was how it was going to look to him anyway, buy grey linens, grey tiles in the bathroom, and grey flooring. Though she supposed that was truly accurate he seemed to be able to see very bright blues and yellows but he also seemed to think blue think purple and blue were the same color and that her hair was brown.  It still amused her that the Army almost didn't let him train a sniper because of it, even though he was possibly the best distance killer in the world, mainly because colors didn't confuse his eyes.  Anyway, why waste time on it if he wasn't going to care one way or another. The one thing she had been adamant about, regardless of how much Pepper and the designers complained, was that the lighting be very dim. She knew Clint and she knew he preferred dark and quiet, like the crazy hermit he would be if not for SHIELD. She sometimes suspected that if it weren't for his job, he would live in a cave on top of a mountain and never talk to another living soul.

So while there were lights, you had to specifically ask Jarvis to turn on anything brighter than 40 watts. It had taken her a while to get used to his twilight world but now she found it rather soothing. She strolled into the bathroom and admired her one concession to luxury. She had had them give him a bathtub, which he never used. He didn't soak in baths unless she was with him and if she was with him, they went into the giant tub in her room with the jets. But she had asked that they give him a huge shower with multiple heads and jets, steam, and a bench to make fucking in the shower more comfortable. Or at least more comfortable than Clint's tiny shower back on the helicarrier. Too many years of being forced to hide their relationship made the shower the obvious place for sex. Now she tended to get horny whenever she set foot in one. Operant conditioning at its finest.

She smiled as she turned on the water and shucked out of her clothes but once she stepped under the warm spray, she sighed. She didn't really want to deal with the other Avengers and she had most certainly not wanted to leave Clint alone. He had been awake and walked her out to the plane and waved at her as he flew away but she could tell he didn't want her to go any more than she had. It hadn't helped they had not had a real conversation since those kids had died. They had been too busy with the mission then he was a wreck on the plane. After they landed he was completely out of it and she did not appreciate the dressing down she had gotten from the doctors about giving him sleeping pills when wounded and before surgery. Then after surgery he had been too nauseas for a heart to heart but then again he always was after surgery. One of these days you think the docs would find a way to do something about it. The most coherent talk she had had with him at been at 2am, when she had to help him open his crackers because he was hungry.

She tipped her head back under the spray and reached for her favorite shampoo, glad to have her sulfate free products back. Her, not quite completely natural, red hair was fading from the harsh products the Army carried. Though glad to be back in the lap of luxury at Stark Tower she was not glad at the prospect of facing the Avengers. Thor was off visiting Jane so at least she didn't have to deal with him and Morse had the decency to scurry back to her slut hole when Natasha showed up. God she hated that woman. Just thinking about Mockingbird made her want to put her fist through someone's torso.

But thinking about that bleached, blonde (she did not believe Clint for one minute that she was a natural blonde, the guy was colorblind afterall, at least not that light) tramp was better than thinking about the way Steve avoided eye contact with her through the entire flight or the way Rhodes had fumed at the deception. Worst of all, the way Tony glared with undisguised anger at the way they had finished everyone off. She could understand their issues. Steve was disappointed in them. He didn't understand their methods and didn't understand lives. She took Clint's orders to show him in hopes he would realize that Hawkeye hadn't had a choice in the matter. Rhodes was just annoyed because he felt out of control. Well welcome to working with SHIELD. He was either going to have to learn to deal with lies and deceptions or get the hell out of Dodge. But Tony, Tony was the wild card. She wasn't sure if he was mad at them for lying like Rhodes, for killing like Steve, or for something else. In fact she wasn't even sure it was them and not himself he was mad at.

She dried her self off and combed her hair, slipping into a pair of yoga pants and one of Clint's Henley's. It was freshly laundered so it didn't smell like him. He never could understand why she sometimes pulled his clothes out of the hamper and wore them after him but then again he was a guy. She still remembered her utter embarrassment the first time Tony had caught her doing it and Tony's horror when Pepper shut him up by admitting she did it too. But it was soft and comfy and reminded her of her partner so it would have to do.

She put a few things away then stood at a loss as to what to do, a very uncommon state for her, when there was a knock at the door. She thought about ignoring it, begging off with being too tired for visitors but Black Widow did not back down from a challenge and if any of these so called super heroes wanted to challenge her she would knock them on their asses. She was spoiling for a fight, when she yanked the door open and came face to face with Bruce, the one Avenger she did not want to pick a fight with. He stood smiling at her and balancing 2 bowls of ice cream and she couldn't help smiling back at him. He was the only one here other than Pepper that shared her sweet tooth.

"Can I come in?" he asked and she waved him into the sitting room. Clint's rooms were the smallest but were the highest up. The only floor above him was for machinery and solar panels. He put the bowls down and looked at her, "am I allowed a hug?" she smiled and grabbed him in a big bear hug that he gently returned. Once they were settled with cookies and cream ice cream on Barton's completely no nonsense (she knew he would have used throw pillows for target practice), low, grey couches; Bruce asked her, "so are you alright? I heard Agent Barton was hurt but no one could tell me anything else."

"I'm fine, not a hair out of place. The worst that I went through was UV damage from the sun," she smiled at him relaxing slightly.

"What about Hawkeye, the way Steve described it he seemed like he got hurt pretty bad and he was acting erratic so I was worried he might have had a head injury," that actually made her giggle.

"He has a broken nose and a few broken bones in his hand. It will be a good lesson for him not to punch metal things," she joked. "And he didn't have a head wound. I made him take sleeping pills on the flight back to the helicarrier and he was still REALLY out of it when we landed. He kept talking to an imaginary Phil Coulson and fell asleep, drooling on Steve's shoulder. So I would definitely say he was acting erratic but it wasn't dangerous to anything but his pride," they both had a chuckle

"Steve and Tony have both filled me on what happened over there," he looked away. "It sounded horrible. I just can't believe Hawkeye would do those things?" She immediately got angry, figuring that he was going to judge her partner like the rest of them. She took a breath to kick him out of their room, when he continued, "I mean that poor guy. It must be tearing him apart that he had to hurt so many people."

She immediately calmed down, though wondered why Bruce thought Clint was such a gentle soul.  The guy had more confirmed kills than anyone else at SHIELD. "He'll be alright," she answered, not sure how much Clint would want Bruce to know.

"But how can he be, I mean really be, after something like that? Please tell me he is going to talk to someone about it," he asked.

"He'll have mandatory psych evals starting today or tomorrow, depending on what the docs say," she shrugged.

"Mandatory psych evals don't sound like the type of place Clint Barton would willingly talk about how he is handling this," he smiled. He was right about that.

"No he won't but he'll be fine."

Bruce, chewed on his lip then offered, "I have a friend, Dr Samson, he's a psychiatrist and he's helped me out a lot. Agent Barton could talk to him, away from SHIELD."

"I'll let him know, but it isn't like this is his first trip to hell and back. He just needs some rest and he'll be good in no time," she defended, feeling the familiar twist of jealousy in her gut.

"If you say so," he ate a spoonful of ice cream then continued, "I just can't imagine how you deal with something like killing children or your friend."

"He'll deal with it because he doesn't have a choice in the matter. Either he gets over it or he swallows a bullet, either way it's done," she explained rather coolly. She knew Bruce just wouldn't understand any more than Tony or Steve had. This whole thing had sucked and had been preventable but it wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened and Clint was a professional. He just needed some time and some space and he would get his equilibrium back.

"If that's the case then what's bothering you?" he had finished his ice cream and set the bowl aside. His eyes were warm and such a pretty shade of brown. Tasha actually preferred brown eyes generally, they always seemed friendlier than icy blue.

She sighed and played with the remainder of her ice cream, weighing what to say next. Bruce was her default confidant if Clint wasn't around. It actually sort of made her laugh that the one and only time in her relationship with Barton that he had ever gotten jealous had been when he had seen her laughing with Steve. He hadn't said anything about it, just stewed on it for a while then decided that it bothered him too much so he avoided both of them for 2 weeks. She only eventually found out what the problem was because they had gotten into a knock down drag out fight over her trying to get him to talk, that had resulted in her having 3 broken fingers and a sprained wrist and he had a black eye and some very sore privates. Anyway, she had explained to him that she wasn't attracted to Steve at all and hadn't even considered him as anything more than a squad leader and didn't plan to. She had never bothered to tell Clint that if she was in danger of falling for anyone, it would be Bruce because he was just so comforting. Not that she would ever think of straying from Clint for Banner. Looks were sexy, brains were sexier, but being able and willing to crush a man's windpipe your bare hands was drop dead sexy.

"I'm actually more worried about how Rogers and Stark are handling it," she finally admitted as she pulled her knees up to her chest, dessert forgotten. "It's taken so long for Clint to warm up to you guys and the way they looked at us afterwards," she trailed off. "Clint won't say anything, he'll follow orders if Fury orders him to serve here and he'll stay if he thinks it makes me happy. But I know it's going to hurt him that your opinion of him has sunk so low, especially Steve."

"Maybe because I wasn't there, and just heard second hand what happened, my opinion of him hasn't changed. I still suspect that he is a quiet, slightly strange guy that is like a walking trope for the creepy sniper," she smiled at that because he totally was. "I think that he is probably one snide comment from Tony away from going completely postal on everyone at any given time and that he's a really good person to talk to because he never disagrees with you because he usually won't open his mouth," he smiled and she returned it. If only Bruce knew how many times he had been in Hawkeye's presence and never noticed. Stark was her asset, Rogers was Coulson's, and Banner was Clint's. She hadn't been lying when she said SHIELD had kept people off his trail for him, usually with an arrow in the neck or a high caliber, ceramic rifle round to the head, and occasionally a garrote around the throat, whatever worked.

"I know he hasn't changed but rather their view on him has changed. I won't lie, it was a dirty mission and Hill never should have sent him knowing his unit was there. Coulson never would have done that to him," she had to purposely relax her fist. Fury had been smarter than he looked by keeping the two women separated after the mission because she had right hook that was anxious to meet Hill's jaw. "And he did have to kill civilians to cover his tracks, which is never pretty. He also had to trick one of his oldest friends into walking into a death trap because he was ordered to leave no witness and no evidence of the operation. Shit like that was why we didn't want this mission in the first place and why we keep you guys so far away from our normal work at SHIELD.

"I'm not a fool, I know what you guys think of us. I'm a heartless psycho and he's a brainless and possibly soulless sniper but," she wasn't sure why it bothered her so much that the others thought of them that way. It never bothered her before but on the plane was the first time she had seen distrust in Steve's eyes and it was like a harpoon to the chest. "But we haven't changed, we just finally let you see who we really are." Bruce gave her a sympathetic smile.

"No one is entirely good or bad, Natasha, everyone has things about that make them a bad person occasionally. Tony can be annoying and nosey. I can be flighty. Steve can be judgmental and occasionally sanctimonious," he explained.

"And what about me and Clint?" she wasn't sure why she asked, maybe a form a self punishment.

"Well Clint can be a little sinister sometimes. I mean the fact that he has a jar of human teeth he's taken off his kills as trophies borders a bit on serial killerish." He had a point on that one. She always found that habit a bit weird and slightly disturbing. "And you claim not to love him, yet refuse to let anyone else get close to him like an abusive and overly controlling lover. You treat him like your husband yet sleep around on him in a rather hurtful manner," he smiled to lessen the blow. She nearly defended herself that she only did that when she was ordered. She hadn't taken a man outside of work to bed, since she met Clint.  She didn't bother even mentally arguing the abusive and controlling part because she was but to be fair, he never told her to stop or fought back so it must not bother him that much.

"But that doesn't mean that Tony isn't really funny and Steve isn't the most trustworthy person the planet. It also doesn't mean that you aren't a good friend or that Clint isn't a thoughtful guy." She noticed he didn't give himself any good points.

"I know. I'm just pissed off at the way Tony and Steve acted. It wasn't like either of us planned for things to go down this way and we wouldn't have wanted it to be different if we could or keep them out of it if possible but they barged their way in and got a dose of reality." He patted her hand sympathetically. "What has their mood been like, since they got back?" She asked. Pity hour was over, now it was time to plan her attack.

"Well," Bruce started, scratching his head, "Pepper, before she left to go to Malibu, had been a bit hazy. I caught her staring at nothing and on the verge of tears more often than not. I heard her and Tony having a pretty bad argument before she left.  Strangly she strongly sided with wanting to forgive you two. I don't think he wanted her to go but I don't think she felt like she could stay. Rhodes has been angry at everything. If you say 'hi' to him, he bites your head off. I believe he's heading back to Washington this afternoon. Steve has spent more time boxing then he has sleeping. He's actually the only one that would really talk to me," he paused, then decided to continue. "He's mad, though. He said Barton was a murder and he didn't want him back on the team. He wanted me and Tony to back him when he went to Fury. I told him I wouldn't make a decision until I heard your side of it," he explained. "Steve also said that he didn't deserve or want the title of Captain anymore, now that he saw how Captains act. Whatever happened there really shook his faith in you guys."

"Yeah, I'm not surprised it did," she sighed, then added at a snap, "but to be fair, you guys not backing us when we said we didn't want to take the mission shook our trust in all of you." Natasha calmed herself then continued, "I knew, we both knew, this mission was shit from the beginning. When I saw where he would be going and what he would be doing, I knew it was a bad idea because it was like what the Army used to make him do.  Spend months in the field away from safety and away from anything to ground him.  It's hard to keep who you are for very long like that.  But you guys just thought about Tony. It was all about protecting Tony and Tony's weapons, regardless of the fact it was going to turn Clint inside out," she fumed. "And now you guys act like we're Satan because it did get just as dirty and ugly as we said it would," she stood and started to pace. Maybe she needed a little more time to vent. "None of you sided with us when we said we didn't want to go, in fact you made us, him especially, feel like he was being selfish because he didn't want to," she sighed, "he didn't want to lose himself again. And now that it's said and done, you turn your back on us for being forced to cleaning up Stark's mess."

"Natasha," he held his hand out to her, "I'm not turning my back on you. I would never do that, not after the way you guys accepted me," she ignored his hand but sat down, his earnestness finally deflating her anger. "I'm sure if any of us had known how bad this would end up, we would have agreed not to send you and Clint."

"I tried to tell you, I tried," she trailed off. Living with what ifs had never been her style.

Bruce tucked one of us feet under him and turned to face her. He played with his fingers as he talked, a sure sign he was nervous. "You know in a way, you and Clint are far more spectacular than any of us," he looked up for a moment then continued. "I mean, think about it, Thor is a God, Steve is almost indestructible, I am indestructible, and Tony is very well protected in his suit. But you two, we never worry about you two coming home because I've seen you drop the Captain on his butt and seen Barton take me down. I guess it never occurred to any of us that there was something out there that you two couldn't handle, even after you told us. And for that, I am sorry," he finally met her eyes and she finally took his offered hand.

She slowly started to fill Bruce in on all the ugly detailed she had left out before and realized that she still hadn't gotten any info on how Stark was taking it.

 **Tuesday August 15** **th** **9:35 am, Helicarrier**

Clint stood on the tarmac and squinted after Tasha's plane, as it disappear into the cloud cover. They were flying low enough that you could walk around outside without masks but it was damn cold or maybe he had just gotten used to 110 degree heat. He turned and walked back into the belly of ship and tried to decide if he wanted to chance the mess hall. Nat had marched him to Medical first thing in the morning to have the drains taken out of his hand, not that he blamed her, having pastel colored fluid leaking out of tubes stuck under your skin was kind of gross. The docs had forced him to take some pain meds, though he only took half of what they gave him. Right now he was almost hungry enough to eat SHIELD issue glucose and electrolyte replacement gel, flavored green, almost. But then again his pain meds were probably going to have him doing the Technicolor yawn in a few hours. He turned left and headed further down towards some chow. Puking was better than dry heaving, anyway.

He ducked in and grabbed a bowl of oat meal and a banana. Not his preferred breakfast but his face hurt like a mother fucker and he was not enthused about the prospect of chewing, even if he could cut something chewy. Besides he hadn't really eaten more than a few crackers since before they left for the assault and he should probably have something bland. He forced himself to eat at a reasonable pace rather than shoveling it down like he hadn't eaten in 38 hours.

He was contemplating how best to get his banana open with only one hand, when Fury and Hill slipped into the seats across from him, sipping coffee and staring at him. He ignored them both and concentrated on the fruit. Maybe if he held it in the crook of his arm he could get it opened, if not maybe his teeth. Fury sighed, set his mug down, and reached across the table and took his banana, peeling it with ease.

"I was getting embarrassed watching you try and figure out how to open it," Fury explained. "And I damn well know you would have resorted to C-4 before you asked for help."

"Thank you, sir" he mumbled and started eating. They started a staring match that he damn well knew he would win. One of his few positive claims to fame at SHEILD was that he could make Fury crack. It actually wasn't that hard, just stare at him and don't say anything for awhile and Fury spilled first. Most people got too bored but then again Clint had raised patience to an art form. Hill he pretended wasn't there. Right now she was not top on his list of people he wanted to deal with. She had sent him into an emotional meat grinder and had no remorse about it. He didn't know whether he should hate her or be impressed.

"I wanted to personally check on you, after the mission. I know it was long and hard, Barton," he sighed and dropped his eyes. Hill fidgeted uncomfortably. Ok maybe she hadn't known how bad it would be or did feel guilty. Frankly he didn't bother trying to guess, he couldn't stand the woman. They hadn't gotten along very well since she referred to him as, "a police dog with thumbs" and he spent the next 4 months answering her by barking.

"I'm alright, sir," he automatically answered not entirely sure if he was alright or not. He was still in that blissfully numb stage of denial that anything had actually happened.  _He didn't kill six kids or his first partner that was all a bad dream._

"Medical said you won't be cleared for duty for at least 6 weeks, maybe longer depending on how your hand heals. Until then you are off duty," Fury continued.  _Well duh how much use was a sniper with his eyes half swollen shut and no hand to pull the trigger?_  "While off duty, you have mandatory psyche evals for every day for a week and weekly for the next 2 months."  _Ah fuck, he hated dealing with the psyche team._ He kept his mouth shut though, Fury seemed to expect him to say something. "You can go back to Stark Tower, whenever you would like."

"I would rather stay on base, sir. I don't think I'm Stark or Roger's favorite person right now," he answered truthfully.

"I suspect you might be right," he sipped his coffee and watched Clint for any reaction. Barton gave him nothing, not because he was intentionally being annoying, at least not this time, but because he didn't know how he felt about it or even if he felt anything about it.

Fury rose to leave, Hill joining him, when Clint finally cracked, "where's Gator, sir?" he wanted to say goodbye to his friend now that he wasn't a Target anymore. Or maybe he wanted to punish himself, or maybe he needed closure, or maybe he needed to talk to his imaginary Squawks to help him figure out why.

"His body was sent back to Ft. Bragg for processing," Fury looked away.

Without thinking he asked, "I would like permission to go to Bragg and escort his body home, sir."

"Of course not," Hill, his technical commanding officer, answered immediately but he kept his eyes on Fury.

"Is this a guilt thing, Agent Barton?" Fury seemed to stress the 'Agent,' reminding him that he currently was on loan to SHIELD and did not belong to JSOC.  At some visceral level he realized he should be annoyed that he could be  _loaned out_ from one agency to another like chattel but right now he was just too numb to care.  _  
_

"No, sir," he caught Fury's gaze again. "It's a respect thing. He was a unit brother and I've known his wife and daugher for years. Someone they know and trust should tell them before a nameless Chaplin shows up." He really wasn't sure why he was going to put himself through this. Telling Squawks's family he was dead had nearly dissolved him into a puddle of insanity. Telling Lisa and Evie that Gator was gone and _oh, by the way, I slit his throat so deep you can't have an open casket and ah you'll get a stipend but no flag, no burial in Arlington, and no support because the Army will disavow his existence._ He had always thought it was very selfish to have a family and do the work that they did.

Fury looked like he would say no, just as Hill had, but the Director had served and understood the bonds of brotherhood in a way she couldn't. "Ok, I'll give you one day but we'll be gone by then so you'll have to stay at the SHEILD base in New York."

"Thank you, sir," he rose as well to go get his Class As and jump boots ready. He wouldn't wear his SHIELD uniform this time. Gator had been his spotter, when he was pure army, and he would say good bye to him the same way.

 **Tuesday August 15** **th** **7:41 pm – Stark Tower New York City, USA**

Natasha steeled her nerves just as she would before any battle and entered the kitchen, the smell of Thai food mouth wateringly good after months of disgusting Army food. But she ignored it to gage Stark and Roger's reactions. She was glad Pepper wasn't here to see this and that Rhodes wouldn't be here to comment. Frankly she didn't give a shit what that puffed up, Pentagon puppet thought. To be honest, she was surprised she cared what Stark and Rogers thought but to be fair, this affected where they would be stationed.

"Natasha," Steve started and rose to hug her, she allowed it but did not return it.

"Jiggles," Stark slurred at her, clearly ignoring his dinner in favor of a bottle of expensive liquor. Bruce concentrated on his Pad Thai.

"Stark," she smiled sweetly.

"It's good to have you back. It hasn't been the same around here with you gone," Steve pulled her chair out and handed her a plate.

"That remains to be seen," she said sternly, no longer pretending to be amiable. "Rogers, what possible grounds do you think you have to for asking for Barton to be removed from the Avenger's Initiate?" She tapped her fingers in an offbeat staccato. It was a trick she had learned from Coulson, tapping out off rhythms made it harder for people to concentrate.

"Natasha, you don't understand," he started.

"You're right, I don't. Please enlighten me as why the most senior SHIELD agent here is deemed to be no longer a good fit by someone that he out ranks and has about a 1/50th of his experience and training?" She stared him in the eyes. Super soldier or no, right now he was just a blond douche bag that thought he was better than everyone else. He was lucky that things were so cut and dry in the 30s and 40s but they weren't that way anymore. Either he had get over it or go find another line of work.

"Please, just hear me out," he started and she waved her hand for him to continue. "The Avengers are the good guys, we represent hope for humanity and a source of safety against evil. We can't do that when one of our members is more evil than the people we face. What he did over there, the things he did, were inexcusable. He killed civilians for no reason."

She held her hand up. "So your criticism of him is that you didn't like the way he fulfilled the mission?"

"He killed," Steve started.

"So?" she raised an eyebrow at him.

"So, he took lives, he murdered those people," Stark tossed in.  _Murder_ was a harsher word than killed, showing that Tony was more affected than Rogers, which didn't surprise her.  For all of Starks sarcasm and mouthing off, he was soft, too soft for their world, in the same way the Steve was too moral.

"What exactly did you guys think assassins did with their time, played darts?" She questioned, purposely pushing them to realize that nothing that had happened should be new to them.

"There is a difference between war and what he did. He killed a woman," Rogers was pacing now.

"While in the midst of a mission," she corrected, "so it was a legitimate sanctioned hit."

"He could have found another way. He could have captured them, taken them back to be tried," Steve started and Tony nodded in agreement.

"Actually no, he couldn't," she produced the copy of his orders she lifted from his gear. He was going to be pissed about it but fuck him, this was more important. She handed them over to Rogers.

"What is this?" He asked as he read through the 3 sentences, " _No witnesses. No evidence. No survivors_." He handed the paper to Tony.

"Hawkeye's orders signed by the Council, the head of JSOC, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He was ordered not to leave a shred of evidence or a single survivor behind."

Steve looked stymied but Tony looked annoyed. "I still think that maybe we would be better off with a different agent," Rogers started but sounded less sure.

"Then I'll go back my things," she rose to leave, calling his bluff.

"We don't want you to go, Natasha, just Hawkeye." She found it rather odd that she had technically killed more people this time around because she had set the bombs off, yet they were more angry at Clint. Their rosy view of women was ridiculous, especially considering that the mastermind behind all of this had been the woman Clint had shot.

"You can't have one without the other, Captain, we're partners, a package deal. Either you accept us for who we are or we leave but no matter what we stick together." He looked down and she knew she had won with Rogers. He would understand the need to follow orders, even ones you didn't like. She actually found it fairly funny that Steve defined himself so much as a soldier yet hadn't actually been in the Army for more than a year, while Clint had been in the army for over 13 years but didn't identify himself as only a soldier.

Tony crumpled up the paper and tossed it on the table. "And I'm supposed to be fine with 'he waz just followinggg orderz, herr kommendant,'?" Tony mimicked a terrible German accent. "It worked so well at Nuremburg. Goddamn it, he's not a robot, he can and should have said no. And look at the date, he got that after he killed those kids."

"Frankly, I don't care if you are fine or not, Stark. He did the right thing with those kids and no matter how many times you harp on it, that fact will not change," she snapped at him.

"He murdered someone he said was his friend," Stark snapped right back. "He didn't even seem to think twice about it. He just kept joking till he went Terminator on his ass and slit his throat."

"His friend was guilty of high treason and terrorism," she defended already feeling like this might have been the wrong track with Tony.

"I don't recall their being a trial of his peers or a chance to defend himself. All I seem to remember was Barton spilling his guts all over the place then bleeding him like a pig. Was he ordered to do that?"

"Actually, yes, he was," she answered. "And before you get on some high horse about saying 'no' to bad orders, give yourself a reality check. If he had said no, or refused, his best case scenario would have been Leavenworth and at worst, one of his SHIELD buddies smiling while they double tap him in the chest. And they just would have found someone else to do it in his place.  All those people would still be dead and the only thing different would be that Clint made a pointless, career and possibly life ending stand."

"So it was self preservation that made him kill all those people?" he quirked an eyebrow and took a drink. "Answer me this,  _Tasha,_ " she felt herself stiffen at his use of Clint's nickname. No one, not even Coulson used it. Clint had given her that name and the identity that went along with it and only he was permitted to use it, because only with him could she really be Tasha. "How exactly did you tell the difference between Hawkeye under Loki's control vs. normal Hawkeye, other than eye color? Because from where I sit he is a stone cold, ruthless killer regardless of if he is following Loki or Fury," He asked then continued at an almost shout, "he didn't shoot his friend from far away, he got up close and talked to him, right before he killed him. That is not the work of a soldier following orders, that's a fucking sociopath."

"Tony," Banner warned but she hushed him. Let the brat say what he wanted. It wouldn't change anything. Tony would never understand that slitting Gator's throat had actually been a show of respect and a final act of friendship. He had saved the man the humiliation of a trial, his wife the loss of his benefits, and his friend the pain of a slow death.

She could have answered him in quite a few different, more politic ways, but she opted for telling him exactly what she thought. "It was a matter of National Security because they had Stark designs. The US government was so afraid of someone else getting  _your_  designs that they ordered him to kill civilians and blow up a facility at all costs. He had to assassinate one of his oldest friends because of your weapons. And before you start pointing fingers at him about being a killer, maybe you should check your own body count," she snapped, then added. "If you want us to leave then that's fine but don't you dare look down your noses at him because of what he had to do. We warned you how bad this would get and you didn't care, you only cared about yourself, which again is fine, because we never expected any of you to care about us. But do not make him feel worse about what happened because he didn't have a choice," she headed to the door, then stopped and turned back around, looking at Steve, "You have the chance to prove to him, to us, that you guys are willing to accept us. That we can trust you even with the things that you won't like, or you can turn your backs on us but after all this time and all we have been through, Clint and I are tired of trying to trying to hide who we are from you," finished and walked out. She just wished she had taken the food with her.

 **Wednesday August 18** **th** **6:01pm, SHIELD Base, NYC, NY**

"Hello, I'm Dr. Lipinski, please have a seat." Clint did as he was told by the 30ish, balding doctor. He hadn't talked with this one before, he was probably new, but he supposed it didn't matter. All shrinks were the same anyway. "Before we begin, Agent Barton, I want you to know that I have been fully briefed on your situation and I assure you I have the highest level of clearance so you may speak freely," he finished and sipped from his coffee. He put his accent northern Midwest. Not Michigan but there was a touch of city in there, maybe Green Bay or Milwaukee. "You can trust me with anything you need to discuss." Clint smiled at that one. He had found as a general rule that anyone that had to say you could trust them, shouldn't be trusted. "I'm here to help you," another platitude and another sip of coffee. _Fool, if you are going to try emotional anchoring, you need to actually illicit the emotion first._

They sat in silence for a few minutes, as Clint waited for a clue of what this guy wanted. "How is your hand doing?" Dr. Lipinski finally broke the silence. He shrugged in response. "You know this will go much faster if you actually talk. Now let's try again, how is hand?" His smile was forced, trying to put Clint at ease, amateur mistake.

"It's ok, I guess," he answered non-committally. In point of fact it hurt like hell but the shrink didn't need to know that.

"How did you hurt it?" Lipinski questioned.

"The Target used his helmet to block my strike. Hitting the curved top of a helmet caused a boxer's fracture and a couple of broken knuckles," he explained.

"Does it hurt?"

 _Well d'uh it's broken in 5 different places of course it fucking hurts._ He was losing respect for this guy pretty quickly. "It hurts but it's broken so that's to be expected," he kept his voice neutral.

"Have you spoken to the doctors to get some stronger pain medications?" He shook his head no, ignoring the slight sour shift of the doctor's expression at his non verbal response. "Why not, if you're in pain?"

"It's not that bad."

"Your file says you frequently decline pain medication, why is that?" Lipinski asked and he almost laughed at how heavy handed this guy was. Coulson used to trick him into talking all time, but he was subtle like a poison. This guy was a like a club.

"I do it to punish myself for the horrible things I've done," he answered completely straight faced. If he was stuck here, he wasn't planning on making this guy's job easy at least not unless he put a little bit of effort into it.

"Really," the shrink furiously scribbled.

"No," Clint answered.

"Then why did you say?"

"Because I wanted to judge how good you were at telling when people were lying," Clint actually answered honestly.

"And how did I do?"

"I'll put this way, I doubt I'll have any compunction about getting caught in a falsehood," he smiled gently. No reason to antagonize the guy too much.

"Ok, then honestly, why do you refuse pain killers, if it isn't to punish yourself?" The doctor adjusted his glasses and wrote on his pad that " _Patient exhibits trust issues."_ The guy was going to have to learn to take off his glasses or sit with the window to his back so that you couldn't read the backwards reflection of his notes in the lenses.

"Honestly, it's the exact opposite. Pain meds almost always make me want to puke. Given a choice, I would rather be in pain, than nauseous."

"I see, so I understand that you just got back from Louisiana. Were you visiting family?"

"I thought you said you read my file?" Barton asked.

"I did," the man shifted position and Clint could immediately tell that by read, he meant perused or maybe skimmed.

"I'm an orphan, Doctor. My only living relative is a dead beat older brother I haven't seen or heard from in four years. So no, I was not visiting family."

"I'm sorry to hear that, a family support system is very important to most people."

"I wouldn't know," he smiled again and the doctor smiled back. This guy was bush league at best. He couldn't pick up a lie or stop himself from mirroring a false smile. What was Fury thinking? It actually sort of depressed him because he had been looking forward to these meetings. He had hoped they would be a distraction from the things he was thinking about because he would have to concentrate to not talk about the things he was thinking, while talking about the things they expected him to talk about. Oh well, he was only stuck in here for an hour anyway.

"If you were not there to visit family, why were you there and for such a short amount of time?"

How should he answer that one? " _I was taking Gator's body back home because I promised him 10 years ago I would make sure he got home."_ Or maybe,  _"I wanted to see that absolute devastation Gator's choices had caused his family so maybe I would start to feel guilty about killing him, like I should."_ He could try,  _"I wanted to see my Goddaughter one more time before she and her mother refused to ever talk to me again because I came home but Gator was in a pine box."_ He settled for,"Gator and I had been friends for over 12 years. He was my unit brother and I owed him an escort home."

"You were escorting his remains home, admirable, but isn't that usually a job for a lower ranking enlisted man? It's rather odd that a Major would be acting as an honor guard to a dead soldier?" The guy's haughty tone was getting on his nerves. He didn't like the fact that SHEILD was changing. When he had started, it was primarily made up of military on loan from DoD or ex Clandestine Service people, who usually started out as military, like Squawks. Now he was in the minority behind civilian recruits and Ivy League brats that thought drones and soldiers were the same thing. People like Hill, who never got her hands dirty so she didn't understand what it meant to be in the shit and therefore didn't respect the opinion of a mere Army man. And OK, maybe was still a little bitter at her about this whole thing, so what, who could blame him. But mostly he was annoyed because he had done the same thing for Squawks on his trip from where he lay in State in DC back home to his family in Carlisle, PA. He and four Marines had stayed with Coulson until he was laid to rest. But he didn't like thinking about it. That had been a particularly shitty day.

"Like I said, we had been friends for a long time," he mumbled, trying to affect that he was unhappy talking about this subject without giving away just how unhappy he was with it.

"How did it go?" The shrink asked. How did it go, indeed?

_Clint had landed at Fort Bragg and checked in with his CO, Colonel Burgess, who was devastated that one of his best unit leaders was dead, before arranging transport for Gator's body. His only option was to fly commercial, which meant he would have to hop a commuter from Fayetteville to Charlotte then fly into New Orleans. He hated flying commercial. He also hated the fact he they kept Gator's casket closed because the wound in his neck was too deep to hide. Before he left he made sure to sneak a flag from another fallen soldier's kit. He didn't know who the guy was but he had no doubt that everyone would assume it was an accidental oversight and requisition him another before his burial. Gator wouldn't be so lucky and Lisa deserved a flag after she had given her husband to the Army for the last 17 years._

_Fayetteville hadn't been a big deal. They were used to seeing caskets go in and out so they were kind to him but mostly left him alone, which he appreciated. Charlotte was another story. His layover was more than3 hours and the only seats available at the gate had their back to hallway. There were so many people just milling around he felt exposed and jumpy. Airports were great places to kill people. He had made 21 kills in airports; it was just a matter of planning and avoiding the cameras. The fact that he knew how easy it was, did not help his nerves. The longer he tried to stand around the terminal and get over it, the worse it got and he couldn't stop himself from twisting his ring around his finger to make himself feel better. It had been a gift from Tash. It looked like a normal double wedding band with a small design in the center but was really a garrote with two metal rings. That and a ceramic switch blade hidden in his phone case were his only weapons._

_He thought about calling his partner but decided against it. She was probably enjoying the luxury of Stark Tower and her reunion with the Avengers. She didn't need to deal with his bullshit. He made it all of 22 minutes before he gave up and went to the USO club, where at least as a Major, he could probably get a chair with his back to a wall. He had been right and spent the next 75 minutes or so sucking down soda water with lime trying to settle his stomach from the pain pills he had taken that morning and trying to calm his frayed fucking nerves. He had been doing ok, except for an occasional startle when one of the loud ass enlisted men getting drunk at the bar made too much noise or took pictures using a flash. He had even managed to zone out, slightly watching people move around the room. Everyone except for an older, Marine Sergeant that stayed parked at the bar._

_Like he said, he was doing fine relatively speaking, until one of the busboys dropped a tub full of dishes. Before he knew what he was doing, he was reaching for a gun that wasn't on his hip and he felt like his heart and a good deal of bile were in his throat. He got up and quickly threw a few bucks plus a tip onto the table and bolted for the bathroom. He was so out of it, he didn't even see the Marine following him. He ducked into a stall and locked the door behind him, leaning against the door, trying to catch his breath. He unbuttoned his jacket and wished he could loosen his tie but with only one hand he wouldn't be able to tighten it back. Much to his embarrassment, he had had to have Mockingbird tie it for him._

_He tried to calm himself and his stomach down but the shakiness from the adrenaline rush was working against him. God he was a fucking mess. He could shoot kids and not even bat an eyelash but some guy dropping dishes sent him into a tizzy. He gave up, bending over and puked. Better here than on the plane anyway. He almost forgot to hold his tie down with his bum hand as he folded double and retched but to be fair he wasn't going to kneel on the floor of a public bathroom in his Class As. These things were a bitch to get cleaned._

_When he was finished, he staggered out to rinse his mouth and wash his face off. Again, a pain to do one handed. He hadn't expected someone to hand him a towel. He looked up and met the eyes of the Marine Sgt from the bar. "Here you go, sir."_

" _Thank you," he tried to steady his voice._

" _It's ok, sir, it happens to everyone now and again, especially when you first get back," he smiled and his eyes crinkled in his tanned face. Clint gave him a questioning look. "You're jumpy as Baptist preacher in a liquor store, you're wounded, and you're about as wind burned as I've seen anyone. Not hard to tell you just got back Islamville. Where were you stationed?"_

" _Baghdad but I spent most of my time in Syria," he answered honestly. He wasn't sure why, maybe he was just tired of lying._

" _I didn't think we had any men over there," he saw the man's eyes scan his uniform and he could tell when he noticed the lack of name or unit insignia, that plus being so close to Bragg must have been obvious. "I see. Where are you heading?"_

" _Slidell, LA. I have to take my buddy, or what's left of him," his stomach twisted and he swallowed quickly, "home."_

" _I'm sorry, sir," he said simply and Clint could tell he meant it. Clint made his good byes and headed to his gate._

_They let him board the plane first, even before first class, which was ok with him, even though the Captain wanted to come out and shake his hand. Then he settled himself in his window seat and tried to zone out on the flight. It didn't work so well. They touched down and Clint arranged for the body to be sent to the only funeral home in the town, picked up his car, and tried to remember how to get to Gator's house. He'd been there a few times for barbeques or birthday parties. Gator had always tried to bring him into his family but he had resisted, at the time unable to trust a kind gesture. It wasn't till Coulson, that he allowed himself to truly be brought in out of the cold._

_He pulled up on Hickory Lane and watched Evie play in the front yard with a baton, still in her school uniform and her wild curls tied in a pony tail. Lisa was a public school teacher but Evie went to Catholic school. He never had been able to figure that one out._

_He took a deep breath and opened the door, Evie looking up at him. She squinted at him for a minute before running over to him and wrapping him in a big hug squealing, "Uncle Clint, is that you, it's been a long time," she buried her face in his uniform and hugged him tighter. He really wanted to puke again._

" _Hi, Evie," he returned the hug one handed._

" _Evie, who are you talking to?" Lisa came out of the front door, just as beautiful as the last time he had seen her. She smiled at him for a split second before she realized he was in uniform, had a flag, and Gator wasn't with him. "Evie, sweetheart, go inside." The little girl looked confused but listened, gathering her baton and going back into the house._

" _I'm sorry," was all he said and watched the women fold into herself on the porch. He wanted to do something but wasn't sure what. He had never been very good around crying women._

_He was surprised though, how quickly she gained control of herself. "How, how did it happen?" she stuttered._

" _You know I can't tell you that," he looked away hating himself that he was glad he couldn't tell her. "I brought him back though, it was the best I could do."_

_By the time he had explained to her where his body was and what she needed to do, she had called her mother over to sit with Evie and the sun was starting to go down. "You know, he always used to say you were his good luck charm," she gave him a watery smile. "That as long as the Hawk was there, he would make it home. I bought him a pendant with a hawk on it as a joke for him to carry in place of you. I guess he was right, you did bring him home," she started crying again._

_He watched her and knew he should say something. He knew he should be crying along with her, especially since he killed Gator, but he was mostly thinking about how long it would take to get back to the airport and through security. He wanted to feel something, he would be happy with guilty but he didn't. The only thing he had felt was nervous in crowds._

_God he was fucked up._

"Earlier you referred to him as 'Target' but just now you said he was your brother. He can't be both," Lipinski pointed out.

"Actually, Doctor, yes he can," he answered and left.

 **Thursday August 17** **th** **6:05pm, SHIELD Base, NYC, NY**

"Where were you earlier today? The logs said you badged out for a few hours." Lipinski asked.

"I took walk around the city. I'm not used to being idle for so long. I was getting bored," he answered.

"Where did you go?"

"The library. The one by Bryant Park," he supplied.

"How was your trip?" the shrink questioned, seeming bored already.

_Not so great doc, not so great._

_Clint liked libraries. He always had, not because he was a particularly avid reader, though he did read out of boredom on long flights, but because they were quiet. When he was a very little boy, his mother used to take him to the small library in town to keep him entertained and away from his father. They would sit together and look at books about cakes and pastries. She had been a baker by trade in her native East Germany, before she had fallen in love with an Army sergeant and moved to Iowa. She always spoke to him in German, that ultra clipped Berliner accent was like second nature to him now, as fluid as English and later Russian. The county library near the farm had very few books, a leaky sink, and a squeaky floor, but it was a haven away from his father and the other kids Clint's age that made fun of him for his bruises and his shyness. He had never had Barney's naturally easy way with people._

_After his parents died and after him and Barney had run from the orphanage, libraries were a place to sleep safely without the fear of other homeless people. They had running water and heat. The chairs were sometimes soft and sometimes they had free cookies or crackers. But most of all he liked to pull down the picture books of cakes and pastries and remember how his mother taught him to measure out the flour but not press down on it and the wrist movements to ice a cake, or never to touch the sugar after it melts until it rehardens in to clear pieces. He would look at the tarts and the loaves of bread and remember how their kitchen smelled though oddly he didn't imagine eating them, unless he was very hungry. Even as a child he hadn't really liked sweets. When hunger was gnawing at his gut because there hadn't been anything good in the dumpster that day, he would look at pictures of Schweinshaxe, Bratkartoffeln, or juicy hamburgers and imagine getting to eat them until he wasn't hungry anymore. He hadn't made Schweinshaxe in a while, maybe, maybe if he ever went back to Stark Tower he would make it._

_Once they had joined the circus, libraries had been where Barney would dump him so he could go off with whatever Sally Rotten-crotch he could find in town. He would sometimes read about Robin Hood, Ivan Ho, or Treasure Island and wonder what it would be like to be a hero. Other times he would randomly pick a book off the shelf and read it, not caring if it was about economics, nautical engineering, or dealing with post partum depression. But mostly he liked to look at pictures of the food from far away places and imagine what it would be like to go there, to just pick up and not be hot, hungry, and ignored someplace other than the dusty back roads of America. Where he didn't have a brother that only paid attention to him when he needed him to make money by performing and he didn't have to spend 9 hours a day working on martial arts and getting whacked by a bamboo stick if his form was off, tumbling that made his feet and wrists hurt all the time, trapeze where he had to trust someone else's grip to stop him from falling, and arrow work (though he didn't mind that). When he grew up, he wanted to be a chef because some of his best memories were in his mother's kitchen as he stretched as far as he could to help his grandmother sprinkle flour on the butcher block so she could roll out dough. Her hands were boney and chapped but her movements were sure._

_Now libraries were just a place for him to kill time between missions. He still loved their quiet and the smell of the musty books. He tended to haunt them when he had nothing else to do and he still randomly picked up things to read, like about conservation of black rhinos or the social stigma of successful women in China. But eventually he always gravitated towards the cookbooks. He liked to look at the pictures and imagine creating the beautiful dishes for Natasha._

_And today he decided, was a good day to go to the library. He had stayed cooped up at the SHIELD base for over 2 days with nothing to do after he finished his reports and debriefing, which normally wouldn't bother him but he never liked the New York base. The rooms were really small, they made you lock up your weapons, there was no range, and it was in New York City. Clint was a realist about most things and he figured out long ago he was not a happy city dweller. In fact he sort of hated urban settings and given his druthers would never set foot in one if he could avoid it, NYC being one of his least favorite locals in general. It was closed in, smelly, LOUD, and just plain too crowded, but Tasha liked it so he sucked it up. Besides, she usually indulged him on vacations and went some place completely out in the middle of nowhere._

_Anyway, today he realized he was going to climb the walls if he didn't get out for a while. It might not have been so bad, if he had been able to sleep to kill time but he couldn't or if he had had his partner or his old handler, but he didn't. So he had spent 48 hours staring at the wall and trying not to think. Ergo, why was trucking down 42_ _nd_ _Street, heading towards the main branch of the NYC library. He had never been inside before, even though it was nearly in Stark's backyard, but figured he should be able to kill some time. Of course he should have considered how unpleasant the trip from the SHIELD base to the library would be, which he hadn't. He was pretty sure by the time he ducked under the archway, he was about to jump out of his own skin and start shooting dark skinned food vendors. But then again, he was usually like that after he got back from the Middle East, another reason he hated that fucking place._

_He ignored the large opened area with people crammed into long tables to head up to the higher floors and hope they weren't as crowded. After nearly giving up, he found a mostly quiet alcove, close to the bathroom incase his pain meds made him sick, and near the biographies and settled down to read his day away. He started reading one about Tony Stark but couldn't finish it. It was self-serving tripe that glanced over his uncontrolled bi-polar disorder and completely ignored his rampant alcoholism._

_It was strange for him to think on the subject but he and Stark did oddly have quite a bit in common. Both of them were orphans, though Tony had been 10 years older when his parents died, a college graduate, and more than financially stable. He suspected that Stark had never once had to flip open the top of dumpster cans to create a rain shield between the building and the can to keep the rain off of him, while he slept. Both of their mothers were European, Tony's an Italian model and Clint's a baker from East Berlin, though he suspected that Maria Stark never had to spend days bound to the farm so no one in town saw her bruises. And both of their fathers had been alcoholics._

_He supposed in general it was really that strange until you compared them as adults and realized that they were virtually nothing alike, other than their shared penchant for being sarcastic. Though he had to admit, Tony was funnier than him. Clint never drank, too petrified to turn into his father, while Stark was a lush. Stark tried to play himself as a natural alpha and leader, but when push came to shove during combat, he bowed down to Steve and Clint easily, while he was about as submissive as it comes generally, until he got into combat, where he naturally took charge unless Rogers was around. Tony was a true believer in good and evil, believing himself to be good. Clint had long ago lost any concept of good and evil, realize it was all a matter of perspective. But probably the most glaring difference was that, while Clint recognized his own faults and what a completely useless shack of shit he was, Tony couldn't accept his short comings to save his own life._

_Even after he put away Stark's "biography," he wasn't able to relax into the stories the way he usually did. He was queasy from his meds and jittery from nicotine withdrawal. No matter what he did, he couldn't seem to relax and lose himself so after 4 hours, he gave up, neatly placing the books back onto a cart to be reshelved. He couldn't have checked them out, even if he had found them interesting. You needed a NY driver's license and a valid Social Security Card to get a library card. The license he had in his pocket was from Georgia and he didn't have a matching SSN to go with it. He couldn't use his real one anyway, as far as the Government was concerned, Clint Francis Barton didn't and never had existed. Some days, like today, he thought maybe they were right._

_He steeled himself and walked out into early rush hour traffic and stopped to consider that if he went a block west and crossed 6_ _th_ _street, he would almost be at Stark Tower. He purposely turned away from the park he often ran in and headed further east. He didn't want to bother Tasha or anyone else when he was like this. He kept his head down as he walked along 40_ _th_ _Street, back towards the subway but out of the corner of his eye, he saw a car speed by and something silver and dark thrown from it. Without thinking, he dove into the concrete doorway of the 5_ _th_ _Street HSBC tower and maybe tackled some poor lady in the process. She screamed and someone tried to pull him off of her, he managed to stop himself from killing the good Samaritan by a hair._

" _Get off of me, you psycho," she screamed and he moved away, leaning against the wall and noticing it was nothing more than a Red Bull can. He had reacted like that over a fucking Red Bull can. He needed to get the fuck out of there but he couldn't because now there were people all around him and he really, really wanted to grab his knife and get away.  The guy to his left was fit but his hands were smooth, he was no fighter.  The guy in front of him was rougher but favoring his left leg, and the one to the right was clutching his bag and probably had a gun.  He would have to take that guy out first.  The rest were women, unbalanced in heals and tight clothes, they were of no threat.  He hated sometimes that his entire world view was based on a person's threat level relative to him and how to neutralize it._

" _I'm sorry," he stuttered at the woman, she had a cut on her forehead. "I'm very sorry."_

" _What is wrong with you, are you drunk or something," she snapped at him, just as a uniformed police man showed up._

" _No, ma'am, I'm not drunk. I'm sorry," he tried to calm her down and defuse the situation, even as he heart pounded in his chest at being surrounded.  He wanted out, he needed to get out of here, it was too exposed, too many people, too close to him._

" _Is there a problem here?" the Cop asked, Whitaker, his name tag said. Why do all cops have to have mustaches?_

" _Yes, this lunatic tackled me for no reason, and my jacket is ripped," the woman snapped._

" _I'm sorry, it was an accident," he tried again, hoping the officer would be more sympathetic._

" _And you are?" Whitaker stood very aggressively, his thumbs looped into his belt. A rookie mistake, Clint could have snapped his neck before he could even get his hands free._

 _But more importantly, fuck, he was lucky he still hadn't taken his false military ID or driver's license for Piece out of his wallet yet. "Pierce, my name is Captain Pierce, 75_ _th_ _Airborne," he answered and slowly reached into his wallet to produce his IDs proving that he was the nonexistent Captain Pierce._

" _How did you accidently tackle a woman, Captain Pierce?" he asked, his fat partner, finally having caught up._

" _I saw someone throw something out of their car, I reacted on instinct. I'm sorry. I've only been stateside for 3 days. Walking around Manhattan probably wasn't the best idea," he tried to give a mea culpa expression._

" _75_ _th_ _Airborne, those are the Rangers, right?" Whitaker's fat partner asked, a look of awe on his pudgy face._

" _Yes, sir," he eased into parade ground rest, hands behind him. Stupid fucks didn't even make sure they could see his hands. He almost wanted to kill them on principle. He looked over at the woman, "I really am sorry, ma'am. I guess I don't have my sea-legs yet, or civilian legs," he smiled as charmingly as he could. "I hope I didn't hurt you."_

" _No, no, I'm alright. It's ok, Captain. No harm done, officers," she waved the police off and he knew he was off scot free. It was amazing what you could get away with when you were a convincing liar. It didn't matter that this time it was the truth._

"The library was ok. There were a lot of books. It was nice to get out for a bit," he answered the doctor.

 **Friday August 18** **th** **6:05pm, SHIELD Base, NYC, NY**

Clint tried to relax his shoulders as he sank into the black leather chair across from Dr. Lipinski. He was tired, too tired to deal with this guy but Fury insisted so here he was.

"Good afternoon, Agent Barton, how are you today."

"About the same," he smiled because that was what was expected of him.

"Tell me about your relationship with your partner, Agent Romanov?" he questioned and Clint almost started. That was an odd question.

"She's my partner. I trust her with my life, I always have," there was no reason to lie about that.

"I've heard rumors that you two have a, how shall I say it, unorthodox relationship."

"If you are trying to ask if we're lovers, the answer is no," he lied. As far as SHIELD was concerned they were merely partners. He sort of missed getting to be more openly affectionate while with the Avengers.

"I understand from Fury that she is back at Stark Tower. Have you talked to her?"

What and odd question.

_It was 2:43 am and the thunder outside sounded like mortar fire and he couldn't sleep. He wanted to pace but his room was too small. He wanted to go shoot his bow but he couldn't. Scratch that, he wanted to fucking sleep. It had been 3 days, since he had slept for more than 30 minutes at a time. He had sleeping pills, he should just take one but couldn't bring himself to do it. He wasn't sure why, he just couldn't. He gave up and picked up his phone and stupidly dialed her number._

_He was going to give her 3 rings, she picked up on the second one,_ " _h_ _ello," she mumbled half asleep._

" _Tasha," he whispered, "I'm sorry," he went to hang up, feeling guilty for waking her._

" _Don't you dare hang up on me," she snapped now sounding quite alert. "Four fucking days I don't hear from you and you call me in the middle of the night? Don't you even think about hanging up."_

" _Ok," was there something wrong with him that having her chastise him helped him relax? He tried to think of something else to say to her but the words stuck in his throat. He just wanted to hear her voice, to not feel so, whatever he was feeling, alone maybe._

" _Pepper came back into town last night," she supplied and he wanted to cry in relief. "Tony was thrilled but she is clearly still mad at him. She totally ignored him unless it had something to do with business, and then spent nearly all day today with me. We went to the salon for a nice relaxing spa day. I got my hair and nails done, then we went shopping and spent Tony's money," she rambled about the shops they went to and the food they ate until Clint felt the lump clogging his throat finally dissolve._

" _What have you been doing lately, other than apparently staying up late?" She asked him casually. He could picture her, laying on her back with one knee bent and her arm behind her head, probably playing with one of her curls.  She hated her curls but he thought they were cute._

" _I went to the library yesterday, the big one by the park," he started, clearing his throat._

" _You were that close, you should have called and I would have come by to see you," she scolded him half heartedly._

" _Sorry."_

" _Did you find any good recipes to make me?" He could hear the smile in her voice. Sometimes he thought she liked him best for his culinary skills._

" _Not really. I was reading biographies. I started reading Tony's but had to stop because it was painfully inaccurate."_

" _They made him sound like a nice guy?" she chuckled._

" _Sort of. Anyway, I read for a while then left and I may or may not have tackled some poor legal secretary and nearly got arrested."_

" _Awesome," she said. "You really should have called me, I would have liked to have seen that."_

" _It wasn't really that exciting," he explained what happened and she laughed. He wondered if she was in the quarters he usually slept in or the really girly ones that were hers._

" _What did you do the rest of the time?" She asked and he felt the lump coming back but talked around it._

" _I hung around the SHIELD base for 2 days, bored stiff, went to my psych evals, and I took Gator's body back to wife and daughter," even he could tell how flat his voice sounded._

" _You should have let me come with you," she whispered._

" _You were supposed to stay with the Avengers, besides, they didn't know you not like Squawk's family," he mumbled, trying valiantly not to remember telling Retired General Coulson and Mrs. Coulson that their only son was dead. If he had ever before wondered what it felt like to have his heart ripped out, that day showed him._

" _You still should have called me," she sounded annoyed._

" _Sorry," he apologized and meant it._

" _Good, not knowing where you are makes me jumpy," he could hear the half smile in her voice but his own mouth refused to mimic it._

" _If it makes you feel better I puked in the airport," he tried to joke. For some reason she tended to laugh at him when he was sick._

" _Good, serves you right," she continued on, talking about some dress she thought about getting if she had to play a high roller again and for the first time in days, he felt his back and shoulders start to relax._

" _Thank you, Natashen'ka," he finally whispered to her._

" _You're welcome, Cossack."_

 _  
_"She's my partner, of course I talked to her," he answered.

 **Saturday August 19** **th** **6:05pm, SHIELD Base, NYC, NY**

Clint ached all over as he slouched in the chair. He hadn't taken his pain meds that morning because frankly he was tired of feeling pukey. Of course without them, his face and hand hurt like a mother fucker but on top of that, his head ached, his bones felt sore, and his muscles were tender. He would be worried but he knew it was from lack of sleep. He had tried again last night, to simply lie down and rest but it hadn't worked, AGAIN. He had spent most of the night pacing the halls of the base.

He was starting to feel physically ill from not sleeping and it was wearing on him. He didn't know why he couldn't sleep. He wasn't afraid of nightmares, he wasn't in that much pain, and he didn't feel scared or unsafe. He just couldn't fucking fall asleep and it was driving him bat shit crazy.

"Hello, Agent Barton," Lipinski greeted him from his seat. Clint grunted at him, no longer even bothering to be pleasant. He guessed he could add irritability to his list of complaints about not sleeping. Well to be fair there was a 50/50 chance that was caused by wanting a goddamn cigarette. "How are you doing today?"

"About the same as usual," he intoned. His voice sounded rough even to his own ears but to fair, he hadn't talked to anyone since he had talked to the doctor yesterday. He couldn't help rubbing his thumb and forefinger over his eyes. His eyelids felt like sandpaper and his peripheral vision was swimming, meaning he probably had horizontal gaze nystagmus.

"You look tired, how are you sleeping?"

"Ok," he answered, then finished with, "except I'm not."

"Your file mentioned you suffered from chronic insomnia, is that correct?"

"I chronically have problems falling asleep," he answered, seeing no reason and being too tired to lie.

"When was the last time you had a good night's sleep, we'll say more than 6 hours and sleeping off anesthetic doesn't count," he added. The little shit must have guessed he was going to say the night he came back.

"Good question, April, I think, before I had to leave for Cambodia." He remembered 2 nights before he had shipped out, he and Natasha had gone to bed early, and had a really fun night. He had slept quite deeply after she put him through his paces and he had woken up with her still in his arms. It had been a good morning. He missed her, he probably wouldn't be so damn high strung if she were around. Almost without realizing it, he started to bounce his leg, and old nervous tick. He had to force himself to stop.

"You seem jittery, too much coffee?"

"I don't drink coffee, it keeps me up," again the truth. Plus he never had really liked it. He was more of an ice tea person.

"I'm going to write you a prescription for something to help you sleep," Lipinski started to grab for his pad.

 _What the fuck was it with these guys and trying to drug him?_ "What are you going to give me because I already have enough bottles full of sleeping pills to probably kill a baby elephant?"

"This is a non standard sleeping pill, it's called Amitriptyline. I think it will help you."

"Don't bother, I won't take it," he looked the doctor straight in the eyes. He had taken it once before, when he had first come to SHIELD and Squawks had forced him to go and get something to help him sleep. It had made him sleepy alright to the point of near narcolepsy, made his hands shake, and made his ears ring constantly until he thought about gauging out his ear drums with a screw driver just to get some peace and quiet. Not to mention it made him think that stabbing himself in the ear with a screw driver was a good idea. After that Coulson marched into his room and threw them away and handed him some Benadryl and told him to try that.

"I think it will help you feel better," the doctor tried.

"First off, I'm not depressed nor do I have anxiety problems and second, and I doubt SHIELD wants me with hands too shaky to hold a weapon or my violent thoughts retarded," he explained.

"So you've heard of it?"

"Yes, I took it once a while back and didn't like it."

"Ok, you don't have to take it if you don't want to, how about Ambien, are you ok with that?" Lipinski had that annoying  _placating the nutcase_ tone in his of voice. It made it want to say no on principle before he realized that getting annoyed by some random doctor's tone of voice meant he probably did actually need the sleeping pills.

"I'm ok with that," he conceded and the doctor scribbled on his tablet.

He held his hand out for it, trying to remember if there was a pharmacy in this base or not. Lipinski refused to hand it to him though, "I do disagree with your assertion that you don't have anxiety problems, though."

"Do I look anxious to you?" Clint asked, ignoring the niggling, honest part of himself that remembered how uncomfortable he was in the airport or on the street in the City. That wasn't anxiety though, it was just him detoxing from a long mission. It was perfectly normal to need a few days to get your equilibrium back after being in very heavy combat for 4 months. He did not need to be medicated.

"Let's cut the bullshit, shall we, Agent Barton. I've sat here for 4 days and listen to you tell me half truths and bald face lies because you are unwilling or unable to talk about what happened. Of course we both know that these sessions are pointless because you aren't ready to process any of the feelings the mission brought up in you. That's fine, because all you or Fury care about is making sure I sign off on you being fit for duty. So lie to me all you want but don't lie to yourself. You damn well know you were diagnosed with PTSD and borderline disassociative behavior disorder your first year in the Army," he finally snapped.

"I have always disagreed with that. I don't have flashbacks," ok that was another bald face lie because he had them after being water boarded in fact he had had a hard time even letting water hit him in the face in the shower. He had them after being in that Iranian Prison with Gator, after Loki, and fuck after watching his parents die and having one of the counselors at the orphanage forcibly sodomize him two times a week every week for 4 months. He had however NEVER told anyone but Squawks and Tasha.

"Well, allow me to enlighten you, clinically you can still present and be diagnosed with PTSD even in the absence of one of the symptoms as long as another presents significantly enough. So for example, in your case, you may not _admit_ to flashbacks but your level of sleep disturbances, hypervigilence, and your frankly staggering degree of emotional numbing make up for it. "

"I'm fine, Doctor," he intoned, trying to sound convincing.

"Of course you, Agent," at least he handed over the prescription.

 **Sunday August 20** **th** **10:59am, SHIELD Base, NYC, NY**

"Have you talked to any of the others involved in the Avengers Initiative?" Lipinski asked right off the bat

"No."

"Why not?" the doctor scribbled again and Clint didn't bother to read it.

"I don't have any reason to," it was true, mostly. He had no mission critical reason to talk to any of them.

"Friends usually talk to each other, even if there is no reason. They haven't called to check on you?" he threw out and Clint thought about lunch, hoping they had some good soup. His nose still hurt, when he chewed.

"They aren't my friends, they are co workers," he defended. It was true, he wasn't really friends with any of them, maybe Steve a little bit but they didn't care about him. If they cared at all, they would have listened when he and Natasha said they didn't want this mission. He suspected they liked him even less now.

"Doesn't that make trusting them in combat difficult?"

"No, I trust their skills and abilities during combat. I don't have to be friends with them or even like them to do that."

"How do you define a friend, Agent Barton?" Lipinski pushed his glasses up his nose.

"As someone you like and trust off the battle field and that likes and trusts you," he tried, not sure if it was accurate or not.

"According to that definition, how many friends do you have?"

He thought about it for a moment. "I had two, now I have one." Coulson was gone, that just left Tasha.  He wasn't sure how to count Gator, he liked him but he had never really opened up to the man.  That hadn't happened until Squawks. 

"How do you decide who is going to be your friend?" This line of questioning was very odd. He wasn't sure how he needed to answer to stay under the radar.

"I don't know. I guess I look for someone that I can trust with things I don't trust other people with." Someone he could show his darker side too and wouldn't run away. Someone he could show his softer side too and wouldn't call him weak. Someone he could be Clint with rather than Hawkeye or Agent Barton, even though Clint wasn't perfect.  Because Clint sometimes got angry, scared, sad, all the things that he wasn't supposed to do as a good little sniper. 

"And you don't feel like you can trust the other Avengers with things you can't trust others with?" He thought about Cap's hurt look when he reminded him he wasn't in the Army anymore, Tony's shocked look as he killed those children, Rhodey's placating look as he held Stark by the neck, and Pepper's look of pity as they boarded the plane. No, he wished he could but he realized that they couldn't or wouldn't accept him with his faults, only the positively, perfect Hawkeye. But frankly what was the point of getting close to people he may one day have to assassinate? It was just an exercise in masochism, having friends.

"Does it matter? I don't have to like them to work with them," he asked, rather than answering.

"I don't know, does it?"


	9. Reconstruction

 

 

 

**Into the Fire 8: – Reconstruction:**

**Monday August 21** **st** **7:15pm - Harriman State Park, NY USA**

She leaned back, removing her sunglasses so she could enjoy the fading sunset. Clint kept his on; his eyes always more light sensitive than hers. She stretched and cracked her back, glad the temperature was dropping. Before this whole thing, she would have found this heat unbearable now it was a nuisance and she didn't like it but she didn't feel like a wilted flower. Normally she would rather be indoors but figured Clint would prefer this natural setting. He liked to lose himself in trees and the sounds of babbling brooks. She suspected he was glad for it anyway. He had been stuck in the City for the last 5 days and apparently had decided to stay on base after he tackled some poor legal secretary because someone had thrown a Redbull can out of a passing car. He was still a bit high strung to say the least.

She couldn't miss his jitters, from craving nicotine. Served him right for smoking again. She also noticed that he had barely picked at the sandwiches she had brought for him, just another thing that was worrying her. On some level she really hated that he could make her worry. But then again, if his hand still hurt enough to still be taking pain meds that would explain it. Pain meds always made him fall somewhere along the spectrum of loopy, queasy, to vomiting like a Tuscan fountain. Or, it could just be that she had picked out a sandwich with chewy bread and his nose still hurt.

"I'm not suicidal, if that's what you're worried about," he started, not looking at her.

"Then what are you?" she asked, glad and surprised he saved her the trouble of starting this conversation.

"I'm not anything," he answered and crossed his legs, lotus style. He was the only man she knew that regularly sat like that. "I know I should be upset, shit, I should be devastated. I killed 6 kids. One of my oldest friends betrayed me and I spilled his guts on his shoes and slit his throat, then lied about it to my Goddaughter. I sacrificed 15 soldiers and a bomb dog to save Stark a few million bucks. I shot a pregnant woman in the face and executed an entire arms ring. I should feel something but I don't," he looked down at his hands, the brace on his right one still needed. "I just feel tired, numb, and dead."

"I see," she calmly said not wanting to give away how much it was bothering her to see him like this. To see that yawning emptiness in his eyes and not be able to make it go away. She felt inadequate. He would know what to do to make her feel better; at least he always seemed to. Normally she would know how to help him, she had always been able to before but then again, she had always had Phil's help before too.

"That is why you brought me up here, right, to talk?" he asked and he wasn't wrong. "Because if you wanted a nap or sex, I'll shut up now." She smiled at him. His joke was half hearted but reminded her that Clint was in there somewhere. He would get through this, she would get him through this no matter what. That was what partners were for.

"No, I wanted to get you away from SHIELD and away from the Avengers so we could talk in private. I think we both need it," she admitted. This had been the first time she had seen true combat, in the sense that soldiers talk about it. She hadn't much cared for it. She preferred her fights one on one if she had them at all or a single battle than home. She was a spy first and any good spy could talk their way out of 90% of their fights. She didn't like living with that constant day after day grind of uncertainty and fear. It was exhausting.

He took a deep breath and continued, "when I killed Gator, I looked down at him, his intestines sticking out and his throat opened to his spine and I felt nothing. I wasn't mad or upset or even happy. I literally didn't feel anything. That scares the shit out of me," he admitted. She understood what his contradiction meant. He didn't mean that he didn't have any feelings at all, he meant he didn't have any feelings in connection with the events. He had compartmentalized to such a degree he couldn't tie his emotions with his actions. It was an unconscious, psychological defense mechanism but at this point it was a symptom of a larger problem.

"You look like you haven't slept in a week," she threw at him. She knew, knew this was going to happen. That was why she hadn't wanted to take this mission in the first place. They had barely recovered from Loki and now this. How much did SHIELD think they could take before something gave? There was a part of her that was still incredibly pissed at Steve and Tony for not backing them, when they said they didn't want the mission. All SHIELD or those two thought about was protecting Stark. None of them thought about what it would do to Clint, because he, especially him, didn't matter, he was an agent, an operative, a soldier, and his comfort was as unimportant to them as his life was expendable. She expected that from Hill but not from Steve or Tony.

"It hasn't quite been a week, only 4 days or so," he ran his good hand over his face, doing nothing to lessen the exhausted look. She took his hand, holding it as she curled around him. She never realized until meeting him, just how comforting a simple human touch could be. His hands were bonier than usual but he had lost quite a bit of weight the last five months. His nails were also chewed down to the quick, a sure sign he had been stressed.

"What have you told the psych team?"

"I told them about some of it, not all but some," he rubbed his thumb over her knuckles.

"What did they say?"

"They offered me anti depressants, anti anxiety drugs, and gave me a prescription for sleeping pills, same as usual. I swear if I took them as often as they prescribe them, I'd be an addict," he joked.

"What about the rest, did you tell them about feeling so disconnected?" she was torn what she was hoping he would say. On one hand, they may be able to help him. On the other, they may kick him out of SHIELD.

"No, I can't tell them that. That would be a one way ticket back to Delta Force and a month later Gunnarson's bullet in the back of head," he sighed. He would know. He had neutralized enough ex SHIELD members that knew too much. She did doubt that Gunnarson would be able to get the drop on him, though. That guy was a buffoon. "I don't know, maybe it would be easier that way. At least it would be over and God knows I deserve it."

"If you do, I do too," she countered. They both frequently joked about suicide, for them it was just a way of life; gallows' humor. They were both bad people, horrid people actually. Loki had been right about that, neither was even remotely virtuous and they did have their own code of ethics that few others could understand. He had also been right that she might have sold out SHIELD to save him. She would have done it in a heartbeat, if she had thought Loki was even remotely trustworthy. She wondered sometimes if he would betray his country again for her. He had done it once, to save her but would he do it again?

"I guess you're right, so what should I do?" he asked, not looking at her but looking at their joined hands. He had finally taken his sunglasses off, now that the sun was almost gone. His eyes were bruised and red rimmed from lack of sleep and his broken nose. That combined with the stubble, overly long hair, and general lack of care in his appearance made him look like the hobo clown he had once played. It was odd to see him so unkempt, he was normally so precise with his grooming when not stranded in the field. Seeing him like this caused a physical hurt in her chest. A fleeting thought entered her mind that maybe Tony was right and this was love but she squashed. She was too smart to believe in fairytale romances and happily ever after. This was concern for her partner, nothing more and certainly nothing less.

"Bruce has a friend named Dr. Samson, he said you could talk to him, that he could help. That way it wouldn't be someone in SHIELD, you wouldn't need to censor what you said," she tried. Banner had been very open about hoping Clint would get help after he heard what happened.

He huffed softly, "Sampson's SHIELDed up and has been for a while," she was surprised. "Don't look at me like that. I was Banner's shadow same as you were for Stark. I know all his friends and I know who has and has not talked to SHIELD." He had a point, a very disappointing point.

"Ok, then first things first, you are going to stop avoiding other SHIELD agents and stop hiding from the Avengers," she scolded. He looked chastised because he had been hiding from them. Bruce was worried to death about him and Cap was beside himself thinking Clint was mad at him. "Second, you are going to come over to the tower tomorrow and we are going to spar and then spend the rest of the day stuffing our faces and watching TV and you are staying the night. Finally, you are going to make me Varenyky with that cheese, potato, and bacon filling I like along with some traditional meat ones with sour cream and shallot sauce. I also want sausages and beer. And that chocolate version of the coconut cake you made for Bruce, what was it called?"

"A German's Chocolate Cake?" he answered.

"Yeah and one of those," she smiled. One day she was going to have to tell him how badly Tony freaked out trying to find a coconut cake that tasted like the one Clint made. What Stark never realized was that Clint had never even tasted a real coconut cake before, even if he had been stationed in the Carolinas. So he just made a German's Chocolate Cake with yellow cake and no chocolate. Another one wouldn't taste the same because Barton didn't actually make it right. A very little known fact, Clint didn't really like sweets, so unless it came in a Dunkin Hines box and he ate it as a kid or it was one of the numerous pies Phil made him eat before he manned up and told Squawks that he didn't like them, he probably didn't know what it was supposed to taste like.

"So you want a giant Eastern European carb-fest?" she shook her head 'yes.' "Ok," he agreed but she could see he didn't seem happy about it. The prospect of cooking usually cheered him up, especially German food, which he had a bizarre cultural fondness for. She had to admit it was sort of fun but not something she wanted to do as often as he did. Then again her food never tasted as good. They sat in silence both lost in their thoughts and the sound of the crickets, when he broke the calm. "Do you think they'll ever forgive me?" he asked in a solemn voice and she felt her stomach flutter in empathy. How many times had she wondered that about different groups of people? But another part of her was thrilled that he actually cared what the other Avengers thought. It meant he finally saw them as something other than work acquaintances and he might finally want to remain for reasons other than that she wished it or he was ordered.

Natasha hated to admit it, but she wanted to stay with the Avengers. She loved the luxury of the tower, the privacy of Clint's quarters, and the emptiness of the gym. But she also longed for the camaraderie of her fellow Avengers. She enjoyed Steve's earnestness and honesty, Bruce's shyness and compassion, and sadly, she also missed Tony's jokes backhanded kindness. She liked the fact that what she did with them was black and white. There was none of the moral ambiguity that surrounded the rest of her life. She never had to worry if she was making the right decision, when she listened to Cap because she knew he would never make a decision that wasn't for the greater good. She couldn't even say that about Coulson. With the Avengers they had the chance to win rather than just the chance of averting the worst case scenario. It felt nice to be accounted one of the good guys for once. She never realized how much it meant to her that she and Clint could openly be affectionate with each other, rather than hiding their relationship like they had to around other SHIELD agents. The security of the Avengers often made her dream about things she never had been able to before, like a ring on her finger and a little boy with her hair and Clint's eyes.

She knew Clint had a valid concern, though. Bruce was the type of guy that took spiders outside rather than killing them. He couldn't understand that part of Natasha and Clint that could just turn off and take life like it was nothing. Bruce couldn't understand but he could accept it. Rogers understood a little better, he had been a soldier but at the same time, he wouldn't have ever followed an order to execute civilians. He wouldn't have pulled the trigger and put those kids down so they didn't suffer. He would have sacrificed himself trying to save them. He would have chosen morals over mission and that wasn't how either her or Clint were wired. Steve would understand but not agree. And Tony, Tony was taking it the worst. Stark was openly resentful and sneering, whenever Barton's name was brought up. Tony wouldn't understand why Clint had made the decisions he had because to Tony battle was a game and if it was a game there was a way to think or cheat and win, without spilling blood. The problem was that real war wasn't like that and Clint fought real wars, while Tony fought theoretical ones. Tony would refuse to understand and he would never accept it, because deep down he knew the whole thing was his fault. He would most likely tear Clint apart with scathing words and accusations and Clint would do nothing to stop him but she would.

She wanted to hold him and kiss away that uncertainty. She wanted to make him understand he wasn't a horrible person and that she would have done the same thing; made the same calls every single time. She wanted to tell him everything would be ok and not to worry his little head about it, but she didn't. None of that was what he needed. He needed honesty and understanding, not platitudes and pity. "I don't know. I suspect they will eventually," she gave in and kissed the back of his hand. "And if they don't, then fuck 'em," she continued. "We'll leave and go back to SHIELD full time and they can find other agents to help them," she sat up and pulled his forehead over to touch hers, her hand on the back of his neck. "It's going to be ok, Clint, because in the end, it's just you and me, my Cossack, just you and me." And she would walk away, if they didn't accept him back because she and Clint were a package deal.

"Thank you, Natashen'ka," he whispered and they didn't talk again till she was driving them home and he started, "the last day I was in Damascus, and that bomb went off in front of the Four Seasons, there was this little boy," he told her about the child, about how he had seen his mother die and his increasing anxiety at her lack of response. She gave up fighting the tears that filled her eyes half way through the story. She didn't cry for the child, instead she cried for Clint, for the fact he had to see that and look the other way. Because she knew he didn't know how to cry for himself, not anymore, if he ever had. She finally dropped him off at the SHIELD base in of New York City, with the promise to see him at 8 sharp the next morning.

**Tuesday August 22nd 9:13 am – Stark Tower New York City, USA**

Natasha was waiting for Clint as he snuck into the tower. She wasn't surprised that the first place he went was to the kitchen. She knew he would never admit it, but he loved that kitchen. She leaned against the doorway as she watched him stow groceries for the meals he planned to cook. She felt a small weight lift off her shoulders at seeing him there, standing in the middle of the ultra modern space, not yet looking completely at home but soon he would. Soon they could forget all this had ever happened and go back to being how they were.

"I see we have an intruder," she smiled at him from the entry way, speaking in Russian since no one else was around. At least he was neatly shaven but still needed a haircut.

"Don't call the police on me, I might not be able to talk my way out of this one," he returned the smile but it didn't reach his eyes, not yet. She suppressed the sigh that wanted out and led him down the gym for a good old fashion beat down.

The other Avengers, even Steve, never understood why they spent so much time sparing with each other. And she could see why it confused them. They both knew the other's moves backwards and forwards. Neither of them was ever able to get the upper hand for long. As soon as it looked like her speed would pay off, his strength would even the match. No one ever won or lost their bouts, so yeah, she could see why they all thought it was pointless. But when they sparred it wasn't about winning or losing, it was about bonding. She could choke a man out in less than 7 seconds with her thighs and he could snap a neck with his roundhouse kick. He had seen her kick hard enough to drive rib fragments into someone's lungs and she had seen him punch hard enough to herniate someone's brain. Knowing all of those things, yet still letting him throw that punch towards her face and for her to latch her legs around his neck was the ultimate form of trust. They trusted each other to pull pack the lethality at the last instant and for the other to be good enough to only need that instant.

Underneath all of the different layers of their relationship, the one unshakable component of it was trust. That trust was what allowed her to lie about everything and seduce other men but come back to his bed. He trusted her to always be truthful to him. And it was what allowed her to watch him ruthlessly kill but just smile and hand her his jacket. She trusted his hands to always be gentle with her. These sparring sessions would allow her to say, " _yeah this mission sucked but you are still Hawkeye and I still trust you more than I trust myself._ " They would also let him say without a word, " _I've been without you for months but I still need you and trust you to always have my back_." They needed this non verbal assurance that even though the mission has been long and had been total shit, they were still Hawkeye and Black Widow, still Agent Romanov and Agent Barton, but most importantly still Clint and Tasha.

They started out with warm ups and stretches. She made sure to face away from him, giving him a clear view of her backside. Tony went for long legs, but Clint was a tits and ass man, pure and simple. But he got her back by propping his calf on a weight bench and doing split past 180 degrees, stretching his foot into the perfect ballet dancer's arch. For some reason she always found that sexy.

After they respective weak spots were taped and braced, they stepped onto the mats and bowed. It felt good, to fight without holding back, and as they went, she could see his stance and movements relax now that he didn't have to hide his level of skill to fit in with regular GIs. They barely spoke, other than the occasional taunt or giggle when he goosed her. Things were winding down and they were both enjoying themselves when she sent a flying wheel kick to his head and he on reflex flipped back onto his hands to avoid her, landing on his badly broken right one. He didn't miss a beat though and it made her smile.

She took it a few more moves, so he could prove he could ignore the pain, but soon chose to end it and they bowed to each other again. She didn't miss the way he shook his hand, clearly having hurt it. She tossed a towel at him and ignored it. It wasn't her style to mother hen him. If he wanted her help, he would ask. "Shower than breakfast," she shoved him towards the elevator and snapped him in the ass with her towel. Upstairs, she helped him change the bandages over his now oozing wounds on his hand, then saran wrap a rubber glove over it so he could take a shower. Of course he had to stop by his jar of teeth and put Gator's in. As close as they were, his habit of taking trophies still creeped her out.

She left him alone for a few minutes, to lay out some clothes for him and hide his shoes. She wasn't about to let him leave today, that was for sure. She selected a comfy Henley and a pair of pajama pants with Simpson's donuts on them that she had bought him, while out with Pepper. She smiled then slipped into the bathroom and dropped her clothes on the floor.

Like most parts of their relationship, she completely ignored his personal space, even in the shower. If he wanted to join her, he always knocked on the door and asked politely if she wanted company. She on the other hand, just walked right in. Today was no different; as she pulled open the door and waltzed in like she owned the place. All he did was quirk his lip up slightly.

"I'm going to have a hard time washing your hair for you," he raised his gloved hand. She grinned at him in return. She LOVED it when he washed her hair for her. She had once dislocated her shoulder and claimed it hurt weeks longer than it had, just so he would massage her scalp as he washed and comb her then long hair for her. He couldn't braid it for shit though; oddly Coulson had been quite good at it.

"I'll forgive you this time, now turn around so I can do yours," she grabbed the eucalyptus and minty smelling shampoo she liked to buy for him and lathered her hands before working it into his scalp. He never used scented shampoos unless he was planning to stay around base for a few days, and she wanted him to know she planned on him sticking around. Plus she liked the smell and it made his hair shiny, not that he cared about how his hair looked but she did. He almost purred in pleasure as she worked her hands down his neck to knead the tense muscles of his shoulders. She played close attention to the slight bruises where his heavy flak jacket and gear had rested. She pressed a kiss to a bullet wound scar on his left shoulder; he had gotten it before she knew him. He had told her once that it was from a fire fight in Fallujah or maybe it was Kabul. Even as she wrapped her arms around him and ran a loofah across his stomach and chest, she stopped to rub her thumb across the scar on his side from Berlin. It had been her hands that had stopped him from bleeding to death on that roof top as they waited for Squawks to come. It was the first time she didn't hate the red on them because it had saved his life. He tilted his head back and kissed her temple. "My turn," she handed him the poufe and stepped in front of him.

He tried his best to wash her hair for her but she batted his hands away and did it herself. She didn't stop him from running the soapy sponge along her shoulders and down her spine, followed by his strong fingers. She waited in anticipation as he soaped her sides up, the touch feather light, making her skin tremble in ticklish flutters. He kissed her jaw, as he moved the loofah up her stomach and across her breasts, his good hand trailed her lower abdomen to caress the cherry blossom tattoo on her hip bone. She was glad that the first stop on her and Pepper's day out had been to get a wax job done. No more looking like the back drop of "Where the Red Fern Grows."

She felt his thumbs graze across her nipple as he fingers brushed her neatly trimmed hair and she grabbed his wrist, forcing his hand lower. She had had enough of his teasing. Maybe if their sex life had been good for the last four months this would be fine but it had been virtually nonexistent therefore this was torturous. She pushed her hips back against him as his fingers worked their way into her.

"Can't a massage ever just be a massage," he asked her, even as she felt his length against her.

"No, now shut up fuck, me, soldier," she snapped at him and felt a chuckle rumble in his chest. She widened her stance and angled her hips to accept him, as she braced her hands against the wall.

"Ma'am, yes, ma'am," he answered, switching to English, and took her.

This was the other piece of their relationship that was essential. And regardless of what Tony said, it was not just because the sex was good that is was important. It was the intimacy of it. It was the show of vulnerability on both their parts and trusting the other not to hurt them. Clint was the only man she truly organismed with, not just expertly timed Kegel movements. He knew that she wanted him and if he chose, could use it against her, though he never did. And she suspected that she was the only woman he relaxed enough with to really, really have fun. Her jokes about him being a prude aside, he had some seriously weird issues with sex that until meeting him, she only associated with rape victims. But the complete and utter openness of sex between them told him that, " _yes I know what you did and why you did it and I don't care. I accept you for who you are and what you did_." And it told her, " _thank you for sticking by me after everything and not giving up on me_."

After they were done, they sat panting and kissing each other on the shower bench. She mentally patted herself on the back again for having it installed. Their movements slow and lazy, were comforting to her and she suspected him as well. It was like a welcome home of sorts.

"Nap now?" he questioned her, as his good hand lightly held her hip.

"Breakfast now, nap later," she nibbled his neck lightly, so as not to leave a mark, then decided against it and purposely left a mark. It was a rare indulgence. He nodded yes and left as she conditioned her hair. She snorted as she saw him pick up the clothes she had dropped on the ground and neatly deposit them in the hamper. He was such a fucking neat freak. She wondered briefly if she should stop him. She might want to be there when he encountered one of the other Avengers but she did nothing. He would sink or swim on his own and she didn't want to sway the way he handled the meeting.

**Tuesday August 22nd 9:13 am – Stark Tower New York City, USA**

Steve walked into the kitchen after his shower and was surprised to see Agent Barton puttering around the kitchen as if nothing had changed. He had been thinking quite a bit since his talk with Natasha and realized that his judgement of Hawkeye had been far too harsh. He had actually been planning on going over to the SHIELD base to track down the archer so he could apologize. This saved him a trip.

"Hi," Clint said to him, not looking up from a mixing bowl he had in the crook of his arm. He was clearly having difficulty trying to mix whatever was in there with only one working hand.

"Good morning," Steve answered and poured himself a glass of milk. He took a good look at his team mate and much as he remembered, was not happy with what he saw. He looked thin, even under his pajama pants with pink, sprinkle covered doughnuts on them. He also looked tired and a bit tense.

"I didn't know anyone else was up yet, so I didn't make coffee, sorry," he still hadn't looked up. Steve wasn't surprised, Natasha only drank tea and Barton never seemed to drink coffee, once saying, ' _I'm too damn much of an insomniac to drink caffeine._ '

"That's ok, I know how to use the coffee machine," he smiled at the ducked head and set about making coffee to give himself something to do. He knew what he wanted to say but wasn't sure how to start the conversation. He remained silent, hoping Clint would say something but after having lived with the soldier for months, Steve knew he was going to be waiting a long time. He gave up and went directly to the point. "I talked to Natasha after she got back about what happened." Barton said nothing, just continued to try and stir what appeared to be the beginnings of dough. "I was very upset at first but then she showed me your orders," he explained, which finally made the other man look up.

"You didn't have clearance to see those," he exclaimed.

"If I had clearance to be there, I think I had clearance to see the orders," he explained.

"Actually, no, you didn't, to both," Hawkeye looked back down at his dough but not stirring.

"Whether I had clearance or not isn't an issue anymore but what was there," he leaned against the counter and listened to the coffee maker bubble behind him.

"I didn't want you to see those," Barton finally said.

"Why?" He couldn't understand why Clint wouldn't have wanted to defend himself by showing the rest of them his orders. It explained so much. Barton hadn't wanted to do those things but he had been ordered. He understood that. "Why didn't you show them to us? Why would you hide the fact that you were ordered to do those things."

"Because I wasn't ordered to do all of them. I was ordered to get the result, they didn't care how I went about it," he began cynically, then quietly admitted, "and because you're Captain America," he said and Steve looked at him in confusion. Hawkeye put the bowl on the counter and sighed, finally continuing. "You're a hero and make little boys want to grow up to be soldiers. You stand for everything that is right and just about the American military. Those aren't the kind of orders you should see, but they are what I am used to. Most of what I do are the types of things that make everyone hate the US Army," he looked down, wiping something off his good hand with his apron then looked up, smiling that dead, fake smile at him. "People need you as a symbol and you can only do that if you believe that the US is right. But shit isn't as clear cut as it used to be. If you think about, we're kind of the bad guys over there because we basically invaded other countries because they may have helped people that pissed us off," Steve sometimes forgot how jaded Clint was about the Army. "I guess I didn't want to tarnish your image of our bosses."

Steve thought for a moment. He couldn't deny that at first, at least, he had been livid about what had happened. He had thought that Clint and Natasha had gone rogue and were taking revenge, but then Natasha had shown them the orders. It hadn't swayed Tony at all, he had said something about Nuremburg and refused to listen to anything else. But it had made a difference for him. To be honest, he was still having a problem swallowing the fact that the US government ordered civilians killed and that it didn't seem even remotely odd to Barton that he was asked to carry it out.

"I was pretty shocked when I saw them. It never occurred to me that our government would order civilians to be killed just to cover our tracks. But I still believe in America and still believe those soldiers are good people, who were doing the best they could in a terrible situation," he explained and realized the exact minute Clint followed his unintentional wording, ' _those soldiers'_ not ' _you._ ' He quickly tried to come up a way to backtrack but Clint beat him to the punch.

"I'm sorry you had to see any of that. I never wanted you guys involved in that world," Barton finally looked him in the eyes. The swelling from his broken nose had gone down, but there were still raccoon bruises under his eyes.

"It's all new to me, like everything else," he smiled self deprecatingly. "Soldiers like you didn't exist when I served."

"Soldiers like me have always existed. Kings and Presidents have always had men they send with a treaty in one hand and a dagger in the other," he dropped his eyes, "the US just didn't have a name for us until the late 70s." That shut Steve up for a minute. He knew he was a bit naïve about how the world worked now but it bothered him to think that his government would willingly send soldiers to do their dirty work for no reason. But then again he would rather wear rose colored glasses then be as cynical as Barton.

Clint turned towards the fridge and took out some butter and began cutting it into cubes. "As a side note," he started but Steve could only see his profile. "I'm sorry about what I said. I needed the Target to come with us and he wouldn't have if you had been in charge. I don't think I'm a better leader than you. In fact, I don't think I'm a very good leader at all. And I certainly don't care that I technically out rank you. Your plan was better and safer. We would have come back with a lot fewer body bags, if we had followed it." Steve listened but there was no hitch in Barton's voice, no shaking of his hands as they continued to cube butter. That icy detachment from what had happened was the one thing he just couldn't understand. He just couldn't wrap his head around Barton's complete lack of emotional response to killing children and losing his men. Even Hydra wept for their dead.

"It was a good plan," he started and felt himself relax. He hadn't realized how much it bothered him that Hawkeye had said those things. From Stark or Rhodes it wouldn't have rankled the way it had from Barton. He respected Clint and his military knowledge and though he hated to admit it, it hurt his feelings that Barton had attacked him that way. "And I understand, at least mostly," he watched Clint put the butter in the bowl of flour and buttermilk. He could leave now, in fact he should. Barton always seemed to prefer to be alone, especially when cooking but he couldn't leave it like that. Hawkeye had been put through hell the last few months and Natasha had been right. When they had asked for help, he and Tony and Bruce had ignored their pleas. He hadn't been a good friend or good captain to either of them so he wanted to do something to start mending that bridge and build back up some of the trust they had lost. "I do disagree with you on one thing, though. You are a good leader. You're men loved you and were willing to walk through fire for you. They were willing to go into a situation they hadn't been trained for, just to watch your back. They wouldn't be that devoted to a mediocre CO."

"They were devoted to the rank and to Pierce, who was me pretending to be Squawks. They liked talking about football and James Bond movies with me. I find the former boring as hell and the second stupid as hell. They followed a character not me," he countered and Steve wasn't sure what to say to that. The reason may have been false but the men's devotion was real. Not to mention, he sometimes feared the same thing now that people followed him because of the stories they had heard about him, the caricature he had become not for his skill. "If they knew Barton, they would probably have been scared of me or think I was psycho."

"I know Clint Barton, at least as much as he'll let me which isn't nearly as much as I would like, and I'm not scared of him and I don't think he is a psycho. Not even after what happened. I think he's a soldier that follows orders regardless of what they are and maybe it has hardened him a little more than most people are comfortable with. I think his silence and his staring can be a little intimidating, even to a super soldier but I also think that deep down he is a good guy and I consider him to be a friend," he walked closer and put his hand on Clint's shoulder. The sniper immediately tensed at being touched but Steve kept his hand there. Tony wasn't the only one that noticed the oddity of the way Barton allowed Gator to bump is shoulder or throw his arm around him. Before that, Roger's hadn't seen anyone but Natasha touch the man. He had thought Clint just didn't like being touched but now he realized that it wasn't dislike of touching but distrust of the Avengers. He aimed to remedy that. He never wanted Hawkeye to feel as left out in the cold as Gator had felt.

"Thanks," Barton answered shyly. It amused Steve how shy Clint was compared to how he acted as Hawkeye. He still didn't look up from where he was trying to mix the butter into the flour. He was clearly having a hard time of it.

"Do you want some help with that?" Steve asked on a whim. Barton usually didn't let anyone help him cook but he thought he might as well offer.

"You don't have to," he said.

"I know, but I want to. Besides, you look like you are having some trouble."

"Yeah, making biscuits with only one hand wasn't my brightest idea," he handed the bowl over and walked him through what to do. It was sort of fun to get to play with the dough like he had as a kid in his mother's kitchen. He continued to roll it out until Natasha came in, hair washed and wearing shorts and knee high socks. He made sure not to look too long though, out of respect for her relationship with Barton. He just wished she wouldn't parade around with so little clothes on, but it was sure sign she had no plans to go anywhere that day. Given the fact Clint was wearing pajamas, he suspected they planned to spend the day relaxing and goofing off. He was glad; they both looked like they needed it.

She smiled at them, eyes dancing and walked up to him, kissing him on the cheek. "Don't you two just look adorable," she teased and wiped flour off of his nose. "I bet if you work at it, you might make as good of a wife as Clint," she slid up in front of where Barton leaned on the counter and tucked her fingers under the tie on his apron to pull him closer and kissed him. "Though he failed and breakfast is late," she pushed him back against the counter.

"Whiner," he threw at her but produced a plate of toast and a pointed towards a pot of tea on the table.

Steve finished the last of the biscuits, only cutting them with the cup, not spinning it, and tucked them into the oven. Clint moved to the range to start cooking sausage for gravy and Steve sank down at the table across from Natasha. He buttered a slice of toast and waited for her to stop staring at him. "How are you this morning, Captain?" she asked, her voice light but the emphasis on  _Captain_ told him she was still annoyed with him. He didn't really blame her. He had said some pretty awful things about her partner before he saw the orders.

"I'm good. I had a long talk with Barton and we're square," he smiled at her and her eyes softened a bit, making her beautiful rather than fearsome. He had never been one of those people that went gaga over redheads but she was changing his mind. Too bad her and Clint were sweethearts.

She reached across the table and squeezed his hand gently, mouthing, "thank you." He wondered if Barton was as upset thinking that Steve was angry with him as Steve was thinking Clint was upset with him. He didn't know and didn't think it was worth asking. He just smiled at her and enjoyed the homey smell of the kitchen, which had been lacking for the last four and a half months. It was good to have them home.

**Tuesday August 22nd 10:01 am – Stark Tower New York City, USA**

Bruce polished off the last of his biscuits and gravy, with a smile on his face. Words did not adequately express how much he had missed Clint's cooking. There was just something about home cooked meals that no restaurant could rival. He noticed everyone else, including Pepper, which was a rarity indeed because that woman never ate, also seemed to be enjoying it as much as him. Tony being the exception, as he was still sleeping off last night's bender.

Barton also didn't seem to be indulging the way everyone else was, which was a shame considering how much he looked like he needed a few good meals. Bruce had nearly not been able to hide his shock or the flush of anger at seeing the shape the sniper was in. He was thin, haggard, and exhausted looking. It also hadn't helped that he refused to make eye contact with anyone except Natasha, as if he were trying to be unconsciously submissive to the rest of them. It almost seemed like he was asking for forgiveness from them and that made him sad. If anything, they should be apologizing to him.

When everyone was finished, Barton rose to start clearing away the plates to the sink, like a waiter. Bruce immediately stopped him. "Go ahead and leave this, Agent Barton, Steve and I will clean up," he smiled, as he saw the other man was going to protest. "It's only fair; you cooked, so we should clean." Though before that hadn't been the case. Clint usually cooked and cleaned not to mention threw things at anyone that messed up his kitchen. He could be a little OCD about keeping things neat.

"You don't have to, I don't mind doing both," he looked down and away from Bruce's eyes. There was a part of him he hated that wondered if Clint's reactions were real or designed to illicit sympathy. But then he thought otherwise. One thing he had noticed about Clint, was that outside of combat, the man was perhaps the most non confrontational person he had ever met. He seemed to always leave disagreeing with people to Natasha. He had to have realized that there would still be hard feelings and he seemed to be trying to placate them before anyone said anything. He had done the same thing at first, after Loki, though then it had been interspersed with bouts of complete coldness and refusal to communicate. It had actually taken months for him to stop and actually start treating them like acquaintances rather than assets to be protected.

"Please, let me and Steve do it. Beside, you shouldn't be getting that hand wet," he pointed to the archer's bandaged hand. He hadn't missed the way Hawkeye was doing nearly everything possible to not move it. That type of wound through the delicate tissue of his hand must have been quite painful.

"Thanks, Bruce, he graciously accepts," Romanov answered for him, leaving him no further room to protest. He didn't miss that she picked up an ice pack for him, confirming his suspicion that Barton's hand was bothering him.

"Thank you," he answered quietly with his Stepford smile and allowed Natasha to lead him away. Bruce didn't like seeing that smile turned towards him, it made Barton look like a cipher, soulless. "Nap?" he heard the man ask Black Widow.

"No, TV," she answered

"Upstairs?" he sounded hopeful.

"Nyet, out there," she pointed towards the common room and he watched her pull his thumb from his mouth, where he had started chewing on the nail. Bruce didn't think he had ever seen Clint do that before but Natasha seemed completely exasperated by it. "Remember what I told you, no more hiding. I gave you 5 days, that's long enough," she wrapped his fingers with her own in what would normally seem a romantic gesture.

"What are we watching," he asked as the two headed over to their favorite couch. He couldn't hear her answer but soon he heard the music from Merry Melodies start to play and he guessed they were going to watch a collection of Loonie Toons. Barton's love of cartoons was actually sort of endearing and weird.

"Are you still planning on asking for Barton to be reassigned?" he asked Steve as he rinsed the plates off and handed them to Rogers.

"I have thought about it and no, I won't. He did things that I would never have done in ways I would never have done them but I can't expect everyone to act the same way I do. Besides, Natasha was right, I was being a hypocrite, claiming to be his friend but only when he acted the way I wanted and did what I wanted. I have to stop thinking of everything through the lens of what it was like 70 years ago," he answered.

"I'm happy to hear that, I didn't want them to go anyway," he smiled. "It's nice to have them home, and not just for the food."

"Yes, it is and the food doesn't hurt," Rogers smiled that ridiculously beatific smile that made his eyes sparkle. "Now we just have to worry about Tony," Steve sighed and Bruce agreed. Tony was taking this whole thing pretty badly. Even before his second trip to the Middle East, he had been blaming himself for all of this. Now he had transitioned all the blame over to Hawkeye, which was patently unfair, as far as Bruce was concerned. And it wasn't because Barton wasn't culpable, because in a way he agreed with Tony that just because he was ordered to kill people didn't mean he had to do it. Not to mention the way he had killed his friend seemed more like revenge than anything. But by the same token, he wouldn't have been there at all, if it weren't for Tony's designs. He knew Tony pretty well though, and he knew that his lashing out at Clint was just him trying to work through his own guilt and Natasha's speech the other night hadn't helped.

"True but let's tackle that later," he finished the last dish and dried his hands. "Right now I feel like some cartoons," he smiled and headed to the common room, where he found the two assassins, well there was no other word to describe it other than cuddling on the couch. It was so strange to think that two such lethal people could be so cute when no one else was around.

As he and Steve entered, he noticed Clint stiffen as if he were going to move but Natasha held him down. It made Bruce a little sad to see that Hawkeye felt like he needed to hide their affection around the team again. It had taken nearly six months for them to be open enough to even admit there was anything other than professional respect in their relationship. He didn't like that Clint seemed to have lost his feeling of security and trust around them.

"Mind if we come and watch too?" he asked, doing his best to sound normal even though he felt like crap over how they had treated the two. Even after he had nearly killed Natasha, these two agents had accepted him and lived beside him as if the Other Guy were just a mild inconvenience. They didn't ignore it and skirt around the subject like Betty did or make fun of it like Tony but just treated it as they did everything else about him, as a fact that needed to be planned for. It had been utterly refreshing.

"Sure, knock yourself out," Romanov waved at them, but stretched out to make sure no one else sat on the couch with them. Barton still wouldn't make eye contact but seemed to relax.

"Is this Bugs Bunny?" Steve asked, looking enthralled?

"Yeah, except this collection has all of them Bugsy, Daffy, Pork, the whole gang," Natasha supplied, as she switched out the icepack on Clint's hand with a heat pack. Bruce could see from the amount of bruising and edema around the wound site that the break must have been pretty bad or he had reinjured it.

"Really, wow, I remember seeing these at the cinema, before the movies started. I didn't know they would still be popular."

"Mostly they are popular with children and those that are children at heart, ergo why Clint likes them," She tickled under Barton's chin and he seemed to almost smile for real but stopped at the last instant, as if he had forgotten how.

They spent the day snacking on the biscuits from breakfast and watching cartoons. Clint got up now and again to work on dinner but always made his way back to the couch with Natasha. He didn't say much or really engage much with the rest of them but Bruce could see him growing more at home again around them. It did his heart good to see that there was hope, if Tony didn't ruin it.

By midnight, Barton was clearly fighting to stay awake, and Natasha pounced on him, making him take some Ambien CR, which he did and bid them all goodnight. Bruce made it a point to find Tony in hopes of softening his harsh feelings towards the sniper. Of course when he found the man, he was in a knock down drag out fight with Pepper, so he decided to wait until the morning. It always sort of made him smile to think that with all the burly badasses in the house, it was two tiny red heads that ran the roost.

**Wed August 23nd 2:57 am – Stark Tower New York City, USA**

_They were too far away. They weren't going to make it. He looked over at Gator and knew his spotter realized the same thing. The chopper was going to leave them behind. They ducked left, into an alley and started tearing away from the extract point. It wouldn't be long before there was a fully fledged fire fight going on and they needed to be as far away as possible. They rounded the corner, and crouched down, Clint quickly disassembling his riffle and tucking it into a back pack. His fingers smarting from the heat of the barrel, luckily his calluses were thick enough that his hands wouldn't blister._

" _We're going to have to hall ass out of the square and steal a car. Our best shot is that we can make it out before they lock us down," Gator explained as he loosened his bright shemagh from over his face to free his beard. Singer was tanned, bearded, dark haired, and dark eyed. He had an ice cubes chance to fit in. Barton on the other hand was clean shaven (his beard grew in red and patchy so was abandoned), just shy of blond, and blue eyed. They would have to move quick and he would need to keep his head down. He pulled his cap on and his dark glasses down not only to shield his eyes from the setting sun but also to hide the clearly European color. He nodded that he was ready to move. They had to play him as a tourist because there was no way he could be a local, which would be awkward if stopped because he was the one that spoke Dari, though is accent was Afghani at best._

_They took off at a jog until they were in the center of this section of Mashhad, then slowed to a walk. Running was one of the most sure fire ways to be noticed. They were edging towards the outskirts, looking for a car they could jack, when they heard the police whistles. They both remained calm and cut into another alley, ducking behind some rubbish bins. "We could split up, you have a better chance of blending in without me," Clint suggested._

" _And you are the only one that speaks Farsi. We stick together, Hawk," Gator countered and tried his radio. It was risky, if anyone was listening to their frequency. Perhaps luck was on their side that there was nothing, complete radio silence, meaning they were on their own._

" _We need to wait for Maghrib to be called and try and get lost in the shuffle," Clint directed. They were all taught the fundamentals of Islamic culture to help them fit in, but Barton was better than most at picking up patterns and reading people so he could mimic them._

" _Where do we hide till then?" Gator looked out into the streets while Hawkeye looked up._

" _Roof tops, no one looks up."_

" _You always want to go on the roof tops," Gator smiled at him, checking his watch. "Did it ever occur to you that if someone happens to look up there is no way to explain why we are perched up there? We need a tea house, café, or better yet a Western style business."_

" _We're too far toward the outskirts for where they let Westerners. You can hide in plain sight, I can't," Clint pointed out, ducking lower as people ran past._

" _We aren't splitting up," Gator told him again. "We were left behind by our command, and sticking together is our best chance out of here. I don't know about you, Hawkeye, but I got me a reason to get out of here, so we stay together."_

" _Yes, sir," he answered._

" _Don't call me sir, I work for living," Gator teased him and scanned the other side of the street. "There, two streets down to the left, there's an open air café. We go get some drinks and act like we fit in and we'll be good to go at dusk."_

" _I still think it's too exposed but, ok."_

" _You think anything other than being 1000 meters away and hidden under a ghillie suit is too exposed," he stood and started to walk towards the café as if he belonged. Clint followed and tried to mimic the same energy. It was tough though, since even with his hat and sunglasses, people stared at him and gave him a wide berth. This was a bad idea. A really bad idea._

_Clint had never been the "I told you so" type but in this one instance, he wanted to say it. It took all of 15 minutes before they were spotted, probably because he was clearly not Persian and because the guy that looked Persian couldn't speak the language. So they were off again, darting through streets and trying to find a place to hide. It didn't do much good though, after 45 minutes they were pinned down and forced to fight. Clint noticed a flight of stairs above him. "I'll cover you, run for the stairs and go up and across the roof tops," he offered, pressing himself as far into the wall as he could get. Pieces of mortar broke off around him from gun fire._

" _No, as soon as I'm up there, I have no line of site to cover you, you'll be trapped." Gator told him_

" _I'll be fine, you need to go," he tried again. Gator was married and was going to be a dad. He had a better chance of getting out without Clint and really, what did Clint have to go back to anyway, a brother he hadn't seen in 3 years and had no way to find, a bunk at Ft. Bragg, and an identity that didn't exist anymore. What was the point?_

" _I am not leaving you behind, Hawkeye, so get that thought out of your head," Singer snapped at him._

" _Don't be an idiot about this, Gator," he sank down as a bullet sailed over his head. They had made it all of 7 feet. "Nobody is going to care one way or another if I don't come back but you need to get back to your family."_

" _So I'm supposed to let you sacrifice yourself for me? You getting yourself killed now is no guarantee that I'll make it back to them and you damn well know I couldn't live with myself if I let you die for me."_

" _Then what the fuck do we do?" Hawkeye asked as he saw the hint of a flash of light on the opposite roof top. It was a sniper. "DUCK!" he yelled and jumped for the fire escape, catching it with his hands and swinging up behind a metal pole. Gator wasn't so lucky. He looked down and saw his partner on the ground bleeding and trying to get back behind cover. Why hadn't he ducked? "Shit, Gator," he dropped back down and pulled them both into an alcove. The wound was bad._

_Gator gripped his pistol and pushed himself up. "I'll cover you, run." He spit blood._

" _Now you want me to leave you here? What happened to staying together?" Hawkeye asked, beyond annoyed._

" _The only guarantee we have now is that I'm a dead man. Keep your head down and shag ass to the boarder. Just make it to the boarder and you're in like Flynn."_

" _You're not dead yet and I'm not leaving you behind. We still have one chance," he said and took a deep breath, fighting down all of his instincts. He stood up, put his weapon above his head and walked out to surrender. Their only hope was that their captors desire to question them outweighed their desire to kill them. Luck was on their side, for once._

_The next 3 days were a nightmare for him, which was saying something because he had lived through some pretty shitty situations. They kept him blindfolded (though not well enough to completely obscure his vision), bound (very poorly, since he could have gotten out of it in about 2 seconds but where would he go? The whole point was for him and Gator to stick together), and tied by a noose to the back of a transport truck. He had to run to keep up with it and if he fell, he was dragged by his neck along the barely paved roads. He had road burn all over his arms, shoulders, and back from tripping. Even though it was 90 plus degrees out, they only gave him water twice a day and even then, someone had pissed in it. Fuck'em anyway. He had spent a few months after he and Barney ran away eating out of dumpsters so this was nothing. Try scraping mold off of left over baby food and eating that; it took serious concentration to not puke that back up. But they saved Gator's life. They patched him up and gave him drugs to keep him stable as Clint jogged behind their truck and wished someone would just fucking shoot him._

_Then they were dumped in their prison cell. Clint was so tired and so dehydrated by then he was pretty sure he was delirious but then again if you are delirious you aren't the best judge to tell if you are lucid. He didn't know or really care at that point and besides maybe it was normal for the walls to look like there were snakes slithering just under the surface. Frankly, he was just happy to be in the shade. Gator was hanging on though, so he sucked it up and peeled his blood soaked socks off his feet where they had dried into the huge, open blisters. After years in the army and even longer as an acrobat, he knew what stress fractures in his feet felt like and he knew he had more than one. Oh well, they heal, no pun intended._

_Gator was in and out, sometimes talkative and sometimes dead to the world but Clint was ok with that as long as he wasn't really dead. He liked quiet and Gator tended to talk too damn much for his taste. The beatings and questioning sucked but it wasn't like it was the first time he had had the shit kicked out of him. Hell, there were a few of them that didn't even hit has hard as his dad had. It was ok, he guessed, he just kept thinking "don't scream, don't scream, don't scream." They didn't feed them enough, not by half but at first Gator didn't finish his so Clint did, and afterwards, it wasn't like he wasn't used to going hungry. He just wished they wouldn't put that horrid Baharat spice on everything that tasted like nothing but coriander and cumin. He was pretty sure he was going to hate the smell and taste of it for the rest of his fucking life. And then there was the lack of sleep. He always wondered how long he could stay up apparently the answer was a little over four days._

_There were scary bits too, like one night that Gator had problems breathing and Clint had to stay up with him and hold him up so he could breathe easier. He didn't know how many times that night he heard the story of how Singer met his wife or about the little girl that was probably about to be borne. He didn't care, if it kept his partner alive, he could ramble all he wanted about his high school sweetheart and the weird pod creature in the grainy ultra sound picture. Clint listened and grunted every time he recounted it and tried not to notice the warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest, whenever Gator called him 'Brother.' He hadn't been anyone's brother in so long it felt nice, even if Gator didn't mean it the same way as Barney had._

_Eventually his spotter got stronger and they could escape. As far as these things went, it was actually pretty easy, a pretend trip, a little sleight of hand to pick the key off the guard, and wham bam thank you ma'am they were free. There was some fancy foot work across some roof tops, some cool acrobatics by him, and maybe they had lied to some nice, old lady into thinking they were with the Red Cross and needed some food. But eventually they made it out, made it to Pakistan and onto a C-130 heading back to the States._

_They made it out, they were safe. He looked over at his partner and saw his guts hanging out and his throat slit from ear to ear. He scuttled backwards away from Gator's bloody form. This wasn't right, they made it out, they made it back to the states. Gator had a daughter, he handed her to Clint and said, "that's your goddaughter, Hawk, anything happens to me and you take of her." He didn't die coming back. They had fought so hard to make it out alive. He wouldn't have made it, if he hadn't had Singer counting on him. All the beatings, the fear, the torture and they had both come back. Gator didn't die, he hadn't died, he wouldn't die, he was too tough to die. No one could kill Gator._

_He looked down at his hands and they were covered in blood. Ok, maybe somebody could. He tried to wipe it away but it was everywhere, all over the plane and all over him. And for some reason Gator had a gaping hole in his middle like someone had stabbed him with a spear in the chest and he wanted to scream and to cry but he didn't remember how._

He bolted upright realizing he was not in a blood splattered C-130 and he most certainly not sitting across from the corpse of his first partner. He tried to even his ragged breathing but was too late as Natasha stirred beside him, "you ok?" she mumbled in Russian. He knew she was playing less alert than she was in case he wanted to be alone. It was a kindness he appreciated. She had probably been awake before he was.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Go back to sleep," he answered in kind. They almost always spoke Russian in the bedroom. He didn't know why, they just did. He rose and grabbed his hoody. He knew she wouldn't sleep till he got back and he felt bad for keeping her up but he needed some air. He was thirsty, his head still felt stuffed with cotton, and he felt like he was moving through water, which told him he hadn't metabolized all the Ambien Nat made it take yet. And he wanted a cigarette, he really fucking wanted a cigarette, in fact he might just skin Steve mother-fucking Rogers alive for a smoke. He should just go back to bed or at least stay on the same floor with Tasha but he wanted to get outside so he threw caution to the wind and went to roof and sat down, his feet dangling 130 stories above the ground and rested his forehead against the railing and tried not to think.

**Wed August 23nd 3:01 am – Stark Tower New York City, USA**

Tony circled his tower twice before turning to touch down. He had been up flying to clear his head of his bitter and confused thoughts rather than the nearly half bottle of whiskey he had consumed by himself in his lab. And because he wasn't sure Pepper was going to let him into his own bed. She was still steadfastly defending Hawkeye and Black Widow, even after she had seen what happened in Syria. He didn't get, he absolutely did not understand how his sweet natured Pepper could side with those two murders. He hadn't been able to bring himself to come upstairs and enjoy the happy home coming of their wayward raptor, the way she had. His mind was still seething with the images of the dead children, dead woman, dead friends, and for some reason the image of that Sanders kid crying over his stupid fucking dog. A dog, he hated dogs but couldn't get the image of the mutt trying to crawl back to its handler out of his head. Why of all things he couldn't forget that, he didn't know.

It didn't seem fair or right that between Barton and Natasha they had killed 6 kids, a pregnant lady, a Delta Force Operator, and countless civilians but expected to spend the day eating junk food and watching cartoons. They should be punished for what they had done and he didn't believe for one fucking minute that  _following orders_  was a viable excuse for the things they had done, because that removed the culpability from them. If they were just following orders, then they weren't responsible for their actions, which was bullshit. Clint knew what he was doing when he put a silencer on his gun and shot a those kids in the head. And more to the point, if they were responsible for the body count, then he wasn't. If he agreed that Clint was just doing what he was ordered to do, then he had to look at why he was being ordered to do it, and that inevitably lead back to Tony and everything being his fault.

He circled one last time, coming in for his final approach when Jarvis spoke, "sir, Agent Barton is on the west side of the roof, near the door. If you wish to avoid him, I suggest going in through the garage."

"Noted, but it's my building, my name was on it, so I'll land where I jolly well please," he sniped and continued towards the roof. He was surprised that Clint hadn't left, or moved, when he landed and wondered if the man was asleep.

He landed and watched as the sniper slumped there with his forehead resting against the railing, his legs dangling down, and staring glassy eyed at the city. He didn't seem to even notice Tony was there, which was really weird. He wondered what the man was thinking, was he feeling guilty or was he happy that he got to kill. Before this whole thing he never would have attributed Hawkeye with either emotion. Frankly he couldn't guarantee he was 100% sure Barton even had real emotions.

Hawkeye finally looked up at him listlessly, almost confusedly. "Stark," he stuttered, as if it never occurred to him that Tony would be in his own building.

"Barton, what are you doing up here this late?" he sneered. He was drunker than he had meant to be. Whiskey always did that to him.

"Watching," the man answered, standing up to move away from the ledge. He was barefoot, which was also rather strange. He and Bruce took bets on whether he wore his boots to bed.

"What are you watching for?" Tony asked.

"I don't know, nothing I guess," he answered. Tony wondered if he had woken the man up. "I just couldn't sleep."

"You couldn't sleep? You couldn't sleep!?" Tony shouted and felt anger flare in him at the mere sight of the murder and whipped his bottle of whiskey at Barton, who dodged it, scurrying away from the impact. The bottle exploded against the wall with a loud shatter, making him feel better. But more than anything, he was surprised to see Hawkeye startle and jump from the sound, his eyes wide. He had never, in the entire time he had known the archer, seen him startle at anything. Of all the things to make the assassin shoot out of his skin, it was a liquor bottle flying at him. It made no sense. But then again neither did anything else about what had happened lately.

Tony felt glass crunch under his shoes as he walked, but was uncaring. Barton stood still as stone, his face showing even less than usual after his initial show of fear earlier. "You're soulless," Tony spat at him. "You murdered someone that was your friend with no remorse, no hesitation, no trying to save him. How, how could you do it?"

"Because I was ordered to," he answered simply, his voice as flat as Jarvis.

"And good little soldiers always follow orders? Worked out well for the Nazis," he taunted but Barton did nothing but stare at him with that annoying blank expression. "You bastard," he hissed at the archer and took a swing. His technique was sloppy and of no threat to Hawkeye, who simply side stepped his wild swing and uncaring of the glass under his bare feet. "You are worse than Loki because at least he had passion; he had something he was fighting for. All you are doing is 'following order.' You fight but you don't even care why or for whom. Do you ever fucking think for yourself or do you wait for Fury to tell you to wipe your own ass?" He swung again and Clint gently blocked his strike. "Were you ordered to kill those kids or was that just how you got your rocks off?

"What if you were ordered to kill one of us, would you do it?" he swiped a third time, and again Barton safely batted him away. His blocks were gentle and controlled, like they always were.

"Let's hope it doesn't ever come to that," Barton said with such a combination of regret and detached iciness that it made him shiver, even in the August heat. He realized suddenly that Barton had probably been told that he might have to kill them, like he had killed Gator. It wasn't a stretch. He had a specially made arrow to stop the Hulk, who was to say he didn't have one that could stop Steve or Iron Man? Why had it never occurred to him before that SHIELD would cover their bases by having a failsafe around to stop any of the Avengers? That failsafe was Clint fucking Barton's marksmanship. How the fuck did Barton live like that, knowing that he might have to kill his teammates and how could they live with him, knowing he might kill them?

Tony fell down on his hands and knees, whiskey soaking into his pants and stinging his nose. "I just don't understand," he felt tears blur his eyes. How had things gone so wrong? How had they gone from teammates and friends to someone that Tony could honestly say he had been afraid of?

"What's so hard to understand, Stark, I'm an assassin, a killer, I killed people? It's not rocket science," Barton explained and Tony felt his lips quirk a bit at his choice of words. The mechanics of rocket aerodynamics being second nature to him but the inner workings of this simpleton's mind were a black box.

"How, how can you do it? How can you just, just do those things?" Tony sobbed, unable to even vocalize the atrocities he had seen his teammate commit. "How can you know you took so many lives and just keep going like nothing has changed?"

"Because nothing has changed," he answered.

"That's bullshit! It's all changed, everything has changed, you killed," he trailed off.

"The only thing that's changed is that now you know what Tasha and I really do. This isn't the first time I've had to do any of those things and most likely won't be the last. I haven't changed, just your perception of me." Tony couldn't argue the logic of it nor did he try as he hiccupped for breath.

"So what, it's like sex for a virgin, it only hurts the first time?" He sneered then deflated, "how do you do it? How can you look someone in the eye and end their life, like that?" He finally asked, grinding his short nails into the concrete and driving slivers of glass into his skin. The whiskey burned as they wove their way in. How could he gently run his fingers, through his friend's hair, then slit his throat like it was nothing? Could he do it to him, Steve, or Bruce? Would he be able to kill Natasha if Fury ordered?

He expected Clint to walk away, to ignore his question, like he always ignored personal questions but he didn't. "You turn it off. You concentrate on the mission and shut down the part of yourself that feels. You only think about the next thing you need to do, the next turn, the next fire fight, the next thing so you can stay alive and complete the mission. Everything else, regret, remorse, fear, pain, doubt doesn't exist. It can't, because if you let it you're dead and so is everyone else. People aren't people anymore, they're targets and assets and they don't have lives, just value to the mission," he answered and his eyes changed from blank to something else but Tony couldn't tell what it was.

"What about when the mission is over?" he whispered and could finally decipher the look in Barton's eyes, it was uncertainty, maybe even fear.

"I don't know, that's the problem. When you don't have anything else to concentrate on and it's just you and the things you've done. I don't know how to turn them back on," he paused and for the first time Stark noticed how jerky Clint's eye movements were and realized just how heavily drugged he was. "But the missions aren't over, they're never over; they end but they aren't over. There is always another one, another place, another job, another Target," he mumbled and for the first time Tony saw what Bruce had been talking about before Hawkeye and Black Widow had left. For the first time since he had met the archer, he looked like a shell shocked soldier, like someone that had actually seen the things he had seen. ' _They took away our humanity, made us killers, and never told us how to go back_ ,' he remembered Gator saying.

Tony realized with a sense of disgusted fascination that Barton was sick that the guy was as fucked up in the head as Natasha was, only in a different way. That he needed help and he needed his friends to be there for him but Tony didn't know how to do that. He didn't know how to support someone else, how to help, how to be the strong one. He also didn't know how to look past Gator's guts spilling on the floor or the smile on that little boy's face before Clint put a gun to his head. And if he was honest with himself, he was a mess right now too.

"How can you know that you have that much blood on your hands and keep going?" he asked more for himself than anything. Tony was many things but he wasn't an idiot. He knew he was lashing out and Clint because he was angry at himself, because those kids were killed because of his designs. Clint may have been the weapon but Tony was the cause. He was no better than Fury or Loki in that respect. It may not have been on purpose and he hadn't given the order, but he had turned Clint into his own personal killer.

"Because the other option is that you just don't. You give up, you lie down, and die, or you swallow a bullet," he again, strangely answered.

"Why don't you, then? Why do you keep going instead of giving up? What reason could you possibly have to keep doing all of this?"

" _I'll face it with a grin, I'm never giving in, on with the show,"_ he mumbled and smiled, that same annoying Stepford smile Tony had seen a hundred times on his face.  Now that he could recognize it, he hated it.  It didn't mean anything, a manufactured expression to create a manufactured emotion in the person seeing him. It was all bullshit, a lie, like everything else about him. Tony was so sick of the lies but so scared to see the truth, because he had seen the truth in Syria and he still couldn't face it.

He was about to call him on it when he registered what Barton had said, it was a line from the Queen song "Show Must Go On." Not one of his favorites but he remembered hearing it in Phil's office once, on the helicarrier before after they captured Loki. He remembered he had barged in and if it were anyone other than Coulson, he would have said they looked verklempt. Tony had questioned him on the song and all he had said was, 'it reminds of my asset, buddy, my best friend, now what the hell do you want?" It hadn't occurred to him at the time, but Coulson must have been talking about Clint. At the time they hadn't known if Barton was alive or dead, a good guy or a bad guy and frankly Tony hadn't cared because he had no idea who he was. And going back and learning how close they were, that must have torn Coulson apart. But more than that, even though the lyrics were about Freddie Mercury's hidden battle with AIDS, they seemed very fitting for Hawkeye and Black Widow as well, hiding everything they feel and everything they are, to get a job done.

"And all you live for are missions. Nothing else matters to you?" Tony asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"Tasha," he whispered and Tony thought for a moment the redhead had shown up and his next thought was that he was going to be murdered very painfully for taunting Clint. But then he realized that she was Barton's answer. She was why he kept going.

"That's not very healthy," he blurted out, trying to regain his composure. "Hinging your entire existence on one person."

"It's better than the alternative, which is that I don't have anything to hang on to," he answered, his voice flat again and Tony could tell that the moment of weakness was gone. Barton was clamped up like a clam again. "I'll leave once I sober up enough to drive, Stark, and let Fury know to assign Gunnarson here full time," he looked down and away from Tony. It was the first time he had seen the sniper ever break direct eye contact. In that moment he seemed so defeated it made Stark's stomach hurt.

He thought about what Natasha had said, they were tired of hiding who they were and that Avengers had the chance to really accept them, all of them. Could he do it? He couldn't ignore the fact that these two were assassins and all that went along with it any longer, not after what he had seen. But the question was now that he knew; could he still see them as friends and teammates? That was the million dollar question. He didn't have to figure it out now but he also knew he couldn't let this man walk away because how long would it be before he snapped? He finally understood why Natasha had asked him to befriend the archer. If he only had Romanov has a friend, then what if something happened to her, he would shatter. And he realized, whether he wanted to admit it or not, he didn't want to see that. He didn't want to see Hawkeye hurt anymore.

Barton turned to walk back inside and he nearly shouted, "Tony, my name is Tony. My friends all call me Tony."  _We aren't people. We're code names and numbers_. Gator had said and he realized in a way it was true. Barton never called people by their first names, not even Phil, thought that could have been because Coulson was his boss. Natasha was the only one he addressed with familiarity and she was the only one that called him Clint. It was sad and scary to think of how lonely it must be to keep every other person at arm's length like that because they may try to kill you or you might have to kill them. How could you live your life never trusted other people enough to tell them your name, to tell them who you really are? He did not understand how Clint and Natasha did it. It was no wonder Gator had lost it.

"I know what your name is," he said but didn't turn around.

"Then use it. I'm Tony and you're Clint and we're friends so that is what I am going to call you, because you are not a weapon or a code name, you are a person," Tony explained, watching blood well up on the pin prick cuts on his hands, making them look like a macabre connect the dots.

"Ok," he walked to the door then stopped. "If we're friends, let me give you some friendly advice, you've twice thrown punches at me and I haven't done anything to you. If you try again, I'm going to lay you out, Tony."

He couldn't help himself as he started laughing almost as hysterically as he was crying earlier. It was all just so stupid. Clint finally used his name but it was to threaten him with violence. But it didn't matter, the Hawk had taken a step closer to allowing someone other than Natasha to handle him.

"Fine but I want an omelet tomorrow with double cheese and no mushrooms," he called at the retreating figure, who ignored him. He stood, his knees protesting the position he had been in, and his whiskey soaked pants now chilly against his skin. He looked out over the city they had protected when first they had become the Avengers and he finally realized that he couldn't fault Clint and Natasha for finally showing him their true selves. Either he accepted them for who they were or he wasn't really their friend and he wanted to be their friend because something told him that not many other people ever did. And he had promised Natasha that he would try with Clint. This whole thing had been a huge setback for his efforts but in a way it was a break through because now he knew exactly what Barton was really like.

All this time he had thought the stoic, stone face, blank eyed look he used was a mask to hide his real feelings but now he realized he was wrong. The smiles were also a mask and the cold, virtually emotionless killer was also the real Clint. The jokes and softer side were an act to put other people at ease as much as the stone cold killer visage kept them at arm's length. There was more to it, Tony was sure but for now, it was enough that he could accept this new view of Hawkeye. And maybe one day, he would trusted enough to see the real emotions rather than the blank face or the fake smiles.

_-Fin-_


End file.
